Sometimes I wake up depressed, dear reader. I wake up and think, "What could possibly happen today that could make me smile?" Then I check my e-mail and find an angry letter from a friend of Charlie Sheen's personal assistant. Problem solved.
Perhaps you remember this column, where I made the Ramblings page look like Ebay, and claimed I was selling a piece of Charlie Sheen's poop. A friend of Sheen's personal assistant, believing I had actually listed Charlie Sheen's poop on Ebay, clicked the link to "ask the seller a question" and sent me this e-mail.
Unless your name is andrew you are NOT sheen's assistant. Although I do find your humor to be well somewhat funny. I cannot endorse you lying to the general ebay public. I know sheens assistant we have been friends since high school. Ive met chuck hes a good guy, ive sat in his ass print, ive shot his guns, yada yada. Anywho hope ya get crap all over your hands when you shit into the bag.
You've shot Charlie Sheen's guns? That's awesome. You and Andrew didn't shoot them at Denise Richards, did you? I hope not, because it's looking like she might get your friend Andrew in the divorce settlement.
The moment I find a letter that makes me happy, I'll quickly find another that makes me sad. This letter, from Phil in Woburn, MA, made me cry like a little girl.
Pooooooooooooooooooooooooooooop. I know that's a lot of O's, but that's how much poop you have earned. I shall have it shipped directly. Please respond with your address, so that your poop may arrive in a timely manner. And please find more time to entertain me for free instead of leaving me with nothing but free poop to read, which I must return to you.
It's quite a theme we've got going today, isn't it folks? First I offer Sheenpoo and get yelled at for it, and now karma has come back to haunt me as one of my own readers threatens to poop in a bag and send it to me. Make sure it's in a Ziploc bag, Phil. Then I'll take it to a nearby little league park, where I'll pitch it to some unsuspecting kid who doesn't realize that his homerun swing will leave him covered in Massachusetts poop.
Sweet, sweet Massachusetts poop. The only poop that's sweeter is Vermont poop, which has real maple syrup in it.
When reading through e-mails from readers, sometimes I'll come across a lengthy one that isn't very interesting. Then I'll reprint it here and make all of you suffer. Don't blame me, blame Sir Reginald Weaner, from Kensington, London.
Good afternoon there Paul, I recently read your column and you asked why "literate people never get mad at you". Well, my dear Paul, I can honestly tell you that I consider you a fuckwit of the absolute lowest intelligence, ever. In fact Paul, you belong in a mental asylum. Quite frankly, I am rather surprised that they let you out of there in the first place. As you may know, fox hunting is now banned in England. However, there is nothing to stop me coming after you with a pack of hounds and a shotgun. In kensington, it's even legal! Anyway, in conclusion, I am a literate individual, and I am mad at you, just to prove you wrong.
First off, being boring doesn't automatically make you literate. Secondly, England didn't ban fox hunting, they banned foxy boxing, and only in elementary schools. Thirdly, I don't think airport security would let you get on a plane with a shotgun and a pack of hounds. Not unless you boarded in Scotland.
Our final e-mail comes from someone claiming to be Sexy Scarlette of London, England. Judging by her failure to correctly spell the word "wow", I'd say she hails from a much different area of London than Sir Reginald Weaner.
WAW YOUR SIGHT IS SO FUNNY I FANCY YOU
That's the whole e-mail. As I read messages from my readers, I like to imagine what each person looks like based on their writing style. With Sexy Scarlette, I'd have to assume she looks something like this:
Someday I'll have enough money to travel to England, and the only way I'll keep the locals from beating me to death for this column is by impressing them with my exquisite knowledge of all things involving Rowan Atkinson. Until then, keep writing letters everyone, and I'll keep mocking them publicly.
