I Get Mail...

> From: Ted H.
> Sent: Tuesday, February 6, 2007 3:26 PM
> To: itsrainingmetaflo@hotmail.com
> Subject: A guy can dream, can't he?
>
> Oh, man, I had the freakiest dream last night! I'm at this posh lake resort when all of a sudden, Julia Roberts walks up with a bunch of her people. Julia Freakin' Roberts! And, oh, man she's happy to see me! Turns out we're very close friends. She gives me a big, warm hug, and we ditch the entourage to go sit together by the lake.

I kind of lie back and Julia curls up in my arms. I stroke her hair and kiss the back of her neck, and she holds me as tight as she can. And the whole time I'm telling her how beautiful she is, how wonderful; and how nobody realizes how special she really is as a person, as a woman - but I know.

And she's soaking it up, she's just absolutely loving and craving this shit. It's like our private ritual: I bathe her in unconditional love, and she's rejuvenated. And we're both filled with indescribable joy.

Then I woke up alone, and it felt like my guts had been ripped out! Talk about your nightmares! I mean: Julia Freakin' Roberts! What a talentless hack!

I Get Mail...

> From: An Infinite Number of Monkeys
> Sent: Thursday, January 20, 2007 1:42 AM
> To: itsrainingmetaflo@hotmail.com
> Subject: SPAMlet Fellas
>
> Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee:
What the fuck are you doing?
You're hanging around my fuckin' neck
like a vulture, like impending death!

You think I'm funny? I'm funny to you?
I'm a clown to you? How the fuck am I funny?
What the fuck is so funny about me?
Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of
me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know
my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my
mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to
the top of my compass: and there is much music,
excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot
you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am
easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what
instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you
cannot play upon me.

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Today everything is different.
There's no action.
I have to wait around like everyone else.
I'm an average nobody.
I get to live the rest of my life
like a schnook.

The rest is silence.