Monthly Archives: July 2006

To Those Lame 25 Questions Forwards People Keep Sending Me

Because there’s hundreds of these in my mailbox, here are some things about me (culled from the best of the worst forwards):

1. What’s your favourite thing to do?: Curse those that send lame e-mail forwards with voodoo hexes. It’s amazing how much blood pours from the head of a virgin goat.

2. Is there something purple within five feet of you?: Only the bruised face of somebody I know who sent me an e-mail forward.

3. Current Disappointments?: I haven’t bludgeoned anyone who’s forwarded a vain, self-effacing question list today. However, I just got up.

4. What came first, the chicken or the egg?: A disgusting half-egg/half-chicken creature gnawing on the skull of fools that waste their time with circular logic problems.

5.What do you want people to remember about you when you die?: That I gave their e-mail addresses to shady internet ponzi schemes because they felt they needed to share more of themselves with me. Who’s sharing now? A militant Nigerian sharing your banking information with his associates in various terrorist organizations. NSA will be taking you to your new summer camp in Guantanamo Bay shortly after reading this sentence for supporting the War on Freedom. Enjoy.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Open Letter to Searchers of Various Literary Pornography

These have been very busy days in these parts; there are many visitors. I like it.
However, I feel I must apologize to the people searching for “16 17 18 underwear models [sic]” or “sizzling redheads” for the absence of said querries. It’s partially my fault for writing to penthouse and not including anything the least bit “hot” or “erotic.” I thought I was being clever. Also, I’d like to mention that the real Penthouse Forum shouldn’t be that difficult to find. While there, you can use your credit card to pay for all sorts of smutty literature. Hell, there’s a public library in your city or town that lets people borrow books like that for the low price of a membership.

I suppose I should be flattered…and I am, but the truth is I can’t write erotica. I tried once and it was embarrassing. So now, I merely parody it in a poor manner.

Sorry again,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Roald Dahl

Thank you for writing these immortal words that put my alcoholism into an acceptable perspective:

“The life of a writer is absolute hell compared with the life of a businessman. The writer has to force himself to go to work…. Two hours of writing fiction leaves this particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he has been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally different people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surroundings is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whisky than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith, hope, and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.”

You are my patron saint.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Terror


Pig Men. The army is making them destroy the world. The amry is full of pig men. I’m talking about the New World Army here. They make the Pig Men fly in airplanes and drop bombs on the land they fly over. The non-Pig Men burn. The non-Pig Men had nothing to do with anything.

This world is horrible all the time.

Open Letter to The New Canadian $20 Bills

This letter is long overdue. When you came on to the monetary scene everybody said you looked like Monopoly money. Or worse, “Like European Money.”

I think your security features are spiffy and post modern. They simultaneously keep counterfeiting impossible while impressing the public. For example, if you hold up you up to a light, you can totally see a ghostly Queen Elizabeth. Fucking far out!

Plus, you are crisp when you come from the bank machine. Keep on keeping on.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To My Internship Coordinator at Journalism School

Hello,

I apologize for the lateness of my reply.

In hindsight, the self-evaluation was overly pessimistic. It was written in a fit of frustration over factors I thought disadvantaged my career in journalism. Lots of festering sores bubbled up unintentionally when I wrote it. I’m a little more calculated now.

I love the news. It a simultaneous source of the world’s most horrible and beautiful events. Today, the Sun published a picture of a bleeding man hurt in a hostage situation alongside at young girl celebrating the birth of the bikini, on the front cover. News is the documented yin and yang of the human condition.

I’m just not sure that I’m the person to create it on a day-to-day basis. I don’t own a vehicle or possess the wish to move to another city. I’m unsure if I’m able to the handle the responsibilities of having those things. I’ll be able to manage it, just not yet.

Thanks for the concern,
Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To My Useless Legs

That drunken soccer game was fun, you have to admit. But two days later and you’re still tight, sore, and painful to use. Now, when I try to go about my daily business I look like a geriatric Frankenstien. This won’t do.

I know I should probably excersize more. But judging from your reaction to the limited high-stress use I put you through during the game, I don’t think I’ll be able to any time soon.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Bones

The town isn’t important. The factory is what made the town important, so we will start there. The factory manufactured small tripods for expensive cameras. The factory became highly regarded in the field. Reputation is everything in the tripod market. The last thing a photographer needs while aiming at the perfect picture is the tripod crapping out. Ansel Adams once slit the throat of a gypsy who sold him a faulty tripod. The thing with the tripod factory that made them so reliable, so robust, was that the tripods were fashioned from the bones of the town’s residents. The factory closed once the town ran out of product.