Monday, December 16, 2002

Dizam. Dizam dizam. Same continuation of rampant busy-ness that forced me to neglect this her blogue on Friday the 13th of all days. I don’t want it to get a complex, so here we go, a little attencion, as requested by, erm, nobody.

I’ve always wanted to start a post off with “due to the overwhelming e-mail asking me about x subject, I feel I must address it here.” Truth is I get jack shit e-mail in response to this blog. I don’t know if it’s because people don’t have anything to say, don’t think I have anything of substance to say, or if I don’t hit enough buttons to prompt e-mail, but whatever. I just see other blogs where people are like “well I just caught up on my 300 e-mails from over the weekend, and boy are my fingers tired.” The only e-mail I get is from guys that want me to hold their money while they escape their government persecution and need help watching their horseshit diamond mine and jokers that want to help me get more traffic with their super duperdy traffic magnet or that guy that sells over the phone auto-plastic-surgery. You know the guy, right? Dizam I fell for it once and my nose looks like, um, it doesn’t look good, so no more of that.

Looking back at that paragraph I’m starting to understand why I don’t get e-mail. I mean what kind of response is there to that?

Dear Keith,

Wow, you really brought up a serious issue. Your fictional self plastic surgery story was really interesting and the fact that you don’t get that much e-mail just forced me to send you this bit of correspondence. You’re so interesting that I just defecated myself.


Matthew, the little boy that lives in your throat.

or maybe,

Dear Alfred,

Are you really Batman’s butler? Dizam that’s really fascinating. I can’t believe that people don’t e-mail you every day, because writing a blog about horsecock sandwiches is pretty damn controversial. In fact, I can’t believe CNN hasn’t picked up on this.

Your friend,

The subway guy

or even possibly,

Dear Berkeley Joe,

You suck. Stanford is the best school, even though we live on a farm. Berkeley is a bunch of fuckin hippies and I sincerely hope that you fuck off and die a gruesome death.

The tree.

Hmmm. All legitimate possiblities. You could e-mail me and prove me wrong, but both you and I know that’s not going to happen, so I’m gonna go on about my day and keep scraping the rust off of this old 57 chevy, lock myself in the trunk, and wait for karmic consciousness.

Yours truly,

The kingpin of ultrablognetic