Thursday, May 29, 2008

Mail time!

If the WW were to ever get a mailing address, I suspect some of the parcels that would come across my desk would be more of the bomb variety than anything else.

But most of you, my elite class of drunkards, seems to barely know how to pee out your own name in the snow let alone send this blog any kind of correspondence. So I at least know I am safe from having my face blasted off as I rip into a package that has been labeled Porn and Chicken.

Instead, I have to rely on the bizarre and deranged folks in the Northeast to get my jollies. In the last couple of months we have been getting anonymous letters sent to the office. The only reason we know all of these are related is because of the handwriting on the envelope.

No return address, no signed manifesto, no naked photos to identify our newly found admirer.

Rather, we get these weird and cryptic messages in what appears to be cards bought on sale from Hallmark — it takes special kind of twisted evil to send those.

The first one we got in February was processed though the local station here.

"My life was just fine until you came along..." the cartoon cat declares from the front of this offensive script. "...and made it wonderful!"

Nothing else was written. The card was not even signed. Someone, I figured, was interested in this bearded newsman and was keeping it to themselves.

The second one came in April.

"Just little old me wishing little old you..." The anthropomorphic ladybug said from a wobbly looking ladder. "...a great ig happy birthday."

My Birthday was not until May, you crazy admirer. This time, though, the card was signed. "RIB, 2008."

But this week, the newsroom found itself wondering if our brief love affair with our admirer had suddenly gone south. Was it something we did? I swear, baby, I didn't mean it.

"You kindness is greatly appreciated," said the printed portion inside.

But it was the hand scrawled message that made us believe we were being dumped once and for all by this caviler epistle.

"It took you five year to remember me. Now you can take five years to forget me."

Um, OK?

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