Day 3

10:48 am: I wake from what feels like the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. This is surprising. The room I’m in does not have blinds or drapes and the sun is blinding.

12:21 pm: Buy guitar strings. Then go to a thrift store. Find a copy of Pierre Berton’s The Joy of Writing. It’s so funny to see “joy” and “writing” in the same sentence. Berton wrote an average of 10,000 words a day while working for the Toronto Star.

1:25 pm: Read the Vatican backs The Blues Brothers as a Catholic film. Okay, sure Vatican.

2:51 pm: Inside Superstore. One of the ones with a gym, hair salon, bank, and a restaurant. Like a city unto its self. I try to imagine (as I walk past the live crabs and lobsters) the kind of person that would shop, work out and bank all at Superstore. I am unable to come up with a picture.

There is a grey blank where a character should be. See a clerk that looks like Henry Winkler. Jesus, where is the quinoa?

Day 1

10:15 am: A co-worker is washing the blue chest plates used to teach CPR. He keeps repeating under his breath, “Die. Die. Die.” I am unsure if he is speaking to the chest plates or me.

He suggests we take a coffee break. I agree. The coffee tastes bad.

10:25 am: Reading the paper. All the CD Reviews have got three stars. I think somebody is not being critical enough.

12:08 pm: Hair cut. Hairdresser tells a story about his friend’s new cabin. It used to belong to the town dentist. In the basement, they found dozens of jars of teeth the dentist got from his patients. As a bonus, the haircut turned out pretty well.

3:50 pm: I realize the future predicted in the Robert Zemeckis film Back to the Future II is five years away. Hear that Science? Where’s my hoverboard?

3:07 pm: “Unfriend” Barack Obama on Facebook.

3:15 pm: Watch a young viking in a bandana enter the vestibule of my office building, presumably to discuss car insurance. Muse for a moment how out of step I am with other members of my generation. Suspect it is mostly because I use words like vestibule.

5:58 pm: Arrive at where I am house sitting. Find a pile of cash on top of a sheet of instructions. A bottle of Wild Turkey has been left for me.

8:14 pm: After many glasses of Wild Turkey, I consider my options. Couch or the public. I grab another glass of bourbon and my rain-jacket.

9:15 pm: I wait for the bus and look at the house where my great grandparents lived. The house has long since been sold.

9:35 pm: Reminded that I am in dangerous territory. Fell or something. Obviously not important.

9:40 pm: There is a girl, no older than 16 riding the train with a mess of groceries in her arms. I feel for her. I glance for her on the platform. She is gone. Like she never existed.

9:45 pm: I see a train. I wonder if the time it takes to reach the platform is enough time for a couple truly in love, to finish a orgasm. Counting the seconds, I decided “maybe.”

9:55 pm: The bus driver and passengers are plotting. There are dozens of balloons. The driver runs out and places the balloons on the hood of a near-by car. It takes ages.

1:55 am: Back at home after the club. Hazy memories. Saw some bands. Talked to some people perhaps. Don’t remember. Ate lots of midnight pizza.

Dear Tiger Woods

This letter is to offer my services as a public relations consultant. I would work for far less pay than the PR firm you have been employing so far and, if you don’t mind me saying, offer superior results.

Tomorrow, this is all you need to say:

“Hey everybody. I just wanted to you to know that I’ve had a great couple months here. The nursing staff have been so attentive and great. I’ll be golfing again soon. Rest assured, I’ll destroy the competition. That’s it. Thanks again to the nursing staff…”

Dear Swiftcover Insurance, and by extension, Iggy Pop

Swiftcover, the madness must stop.

When I’m watching television, every time the scheduled programing ends, there’s Iggy Pop, angry and shouting about insurance.

Swiftcover, no matter how much ad-time you’ve purchased, it won’t make your insurance products any more interesting to the general public.

Why do you believe a gaunt, sinewy rock star that resembles a breast-less Wicked Witch of the West is the best possible face for your company? Your company is not that rebellious or it wouldn’t be turning a profit.

You’d be better off having the gnarled wreckage of  car with the spongy crimson remains of a driver hanging out of it with bottle of Jack Daniels in one barely-attached hand as a spokesthing. The wails of the family choking to death on each other’s vomited blood in a crushed minivan opposite would be preferable to hearing Iggy Pop utter, “It’s time to r-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-d-d-d-d-e” ever again.

Just so you know…

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

The Love Letter

Fergis Writes Form Letters

Occasionally weary travellers of the Interweb will stumble upon this humble site with the intention of finding something useful. Until now, they have had to move on to more informative virtual pastures but no longer. Please enjoy the following form letter you-can-use. Though you probably shouldn’t.

The Love Letter:

The aim of the love letter is to make the object of your desire swoon with passionate lust. Since the beginning of flat surfaces and burnt sticks, the love-stricken have used love letters to attract romance.

Though recent studies have indicated cavemen simply masturbated on to the nearest wall to demonstrate their intentions to mate, it’s up to you to decide which is more poetic.

Start by describing the physical features of the recipient and how those features make you feel. Be descriptive and honest. Pour your heart into it and likely there will be something within that resonates with your love-interest.

EXAMPLE:

Hey Baby [or the name if you know it],

When I first saw you at the bar, I nearly crapped my pants. You were that beautiful and probably still are.

After I made it to third base with your best friend in the back of my Saturn, I knew that you were the one to have my heart.

Your lips are like two beautiful hot dogs left on the pavement to curl under the hot summer sun. Your eyes are similar to holes made by a hole-punch in the paper of my crotch. Your ass is like the unresolved court proceedings that drive me crazy, even though the psychiatric evaluation indicates I’m sane enough to stand trial. Your teeth are also mostly straight which is a plus. And you’re totally not fat.

Please meet me at the Econolodge at [insert date and time] wearing the costume attached.

Sincerely,
[Your Name]

PS: Can you bring your best friend too? We have some unfinished business together. Wink, wink!

PPS: No cops! Wink, wink!