My brother, the pimp

Dear Larry,

 

It's been a while. How have you been? Me? Oh, I've been doing ok. I'm not a huge fan of the Christmas time to be honest. More on that later. My brother told me a secret and he swore me to secrecy but I cannot keep a secret. I must tell someone. So, when I confess to him that I told Larry David, he won't be upset. Frankly, he might not even recognize your name. Nevertheless, he shouldn't be too bothered.

 

Anyway, he confided in me that he had begun a sexual relationship with a woman named Joyce. Not because he cares for her as much as she has a car that she lets him borrow frequently. In fact, I think that Joyce is (or at this point, was) quite smitten with him. If you knew him, you'd find this pretty amazing. He's a swell fellow but not much for the settling down. This wasn't the secret, though. The secret was that he had also taken up with her daughter, who's name eludes me at the moment. She's a bit on the young side. Anyway, he carried on with the two of them for a little while without them knowing about his relationship with the other. Pretty cool. That's like one of those goals that, as men, we hope to one day attain, but never really believe that it will ever happen. For instance, the menage et trois is another such goal. That one ranks a little higher than the other but I think that you get my point. Anyway, he can scratch one off of the list.

 

I'm so very proud.

 

Hope all is well.

 

Happy Chanukah!

 

ps. Don't tell anyone.

 

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Pizza Hut is Racist

Technorati Tags : pizza, hut, racist

 

Dear Larry,

 

What's happening old man? It's been too long. I wanted to write when I found out that you were going to have that special on TBS then I didn't watch it and felt guilty. I do care about the environment though. I do my part. Recycling is on my to-do list. And I want to look into getting solar panels for the house. This endeavor could potentially be a lot of work so I'm going to stick with the recycling project for the time being. Not to mention, your show conflicted with Desperate Housewives and I don't pass up any chance to see Nicolette Sheridan wearing next-to-nothing. For an old lady, she's hot. But I digress.

 

Anna and I were at home one Friday night a couple of weeks ago. We decided not to go out but instead to treat ourselves to some greasy Pizza Slut pizza. We grudgingly made this choice because neither of us wanted to get out and it seemed that Pizza Hut was our only option if we wanted delivery. We called the 362-3333 number to place our order and the operator had trouble finding our address in their system. Anna explained that it was a new development so it might not yet be in the database. They took the order anyway and told us that if they had any problems, that they would place a follow-up call to confirm the address. Five minutes later, Pizza Hut called back to tell us that they did not deliver to our area. I asked them why, naturally. I had previously checked their website to make sure that there was a store close by and found that, in fact, there was one less than two miles away. In truth, the reason that they don't deliver to our area is that our development sits on the razed remains of a development affectionately known as Hurt Village. Considered one of the most dangerous parts of the city, delivery places flat-out refused to make deliveries there lest their delivery drivers be executed, gangsta-style. I understood why they didn't deliver there in the past. However, the place has been cleaned up, new houses erected, and middle-class America has been invited to move in and set up shop. Long story short, Pizza Hut lady said that we were out of the zone. I told her that it was racist not to deliver to our neighborhood because I knew that it wasn't because we were too far away, but because they considered our neighborhood dangerous. She hung up.

 

No one is immune.

 

Talk to you later,

 

Paul

 

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Stephen Lewis, revisited

Larry,

 

Old chum. Please do not give me crap about how long it's been. I know. I've been in a funk. What kind of funk, you ask? I'm not sure. If I could properly pinpoint the source of the funk, then I would know precisely how to get out of said funk. Having said that, I'm at an impasse...and rambling apparently. I did have some things to tell you about, the first of which will require some backstory regarding my high schools days at White Station HS.

I believe that it was my senior year, which would have been 1993 if memory serves. Stephen B. Lewis and I had 6 classes together that year so we were pretty much inseparable. We devised games to play to keep us amused and entertained throughout the day. One such game was called (I believe) the T-Shirt game. The rules of the game were simple; you see someone walking down the hall wearing a T-Shirt and without making eye contact, you semi-shout whatever it is on their T-Shirt. For example, if we'd happen to see an underclassman walking down the hall wearing a Hard Rock t-shirt, we'd say, just slightly above the din, "Hard Rock, New Orleans". We wouldn't stop to converse, we wouldn't look at them. We'd just keep walking to our class, enjoying the havoc that we had just wreacked. In one instant, we'd made someone self-conscious. Often, the kids would look around, befuddled and searching for answers. Stephen and I though, we had no answers. Only smirks and chortles for those that chose to wear t-shirts without giving some thought to the consequences of their actions.

 

Another game that we liked to play...I'm not sure if we had a name for this one. But it involved, writing dirty words down, then writing them backwards, and then shouting out the word in reverse. In class. It was hilarious. Let me give you an example. A teacher would leave class momentarily to take a bathroom break or catch a smoke in the lounge and Stephen or myself would commence to playing the Saying Things Backwards Really Loudly Game. So, we'd say things like "Sinep" or "Mutorcs". That's entertainment. We were 18. Looking back, it's more than a little sad.

 

Anyway, this is the point of the story: I owed a buddy (let's call him Sequoia for the sake of anonymity) some money for our fantasy football league and because I don't see him all that often, I had to mail him the check. In the bottom left-hand corner where there's a spot for a memo, I wrote LLAB CAS. That's ball sac if you aren't the skilled reverse-reader that I am. Good stuff.

 

Talk to you soon,

 

Paul 

 

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Memphis Drivers

Larry, old boy. How was your weekend. Mine? Nice, thanks. Had some great Thai food and did some much needed yard work. But I did forget to mention the incident that happened on the way home from the Doctor's office on Friday. I was driving home, going my usual route down one of the Parkways, when out of the blue this car on my left starts to drift in my lane. I honked my horn because when people drive like shit, I want them to be aware of it. How else are they to know that they drive like shit if good samaritans like me, don't tell them. So, quickly the car moved back into it's lane and I was momentarily relieved. That is, until the car started slowing down. Was I afraid? No. Not at all. It was a big green jalopy and I knew by the make and model of the car, coupled with the speed at which this car was moving, I was dealing with an old person. Older than you, my friend. No offense. So, she's (it turns out that the driver was a woman) slowing down and we are quickly approaching a red light. She rolls her window down and I can tell that she's trying to tell me something so I oblige by rolling down my window as well. She asks me, somewhat annoyed, what's the problem. And here's where it gets frustrating because I have the opportunity to rip into her like Conan the Barbarian, fresh from the sword sharpening shop. And I say to her, "Yes, the problem is your driving". She quickly retorts, "What's the problem with my driving?" I've got her right where I want her. So I say, "Your driving is a big piece of crap!" That's the best I can do. So often, we are confronted with situations in which we are speechless. If we could only take a moment or two to really collect our thoughts, we'd possibly have something poignant or witty or acerbic to say. But most of the time, we are idiots. Dumbfounded or mute or unintelligible. At least I am. Funny side note-she apologized for her poor driving and went about her merry way. Kind of takes the fun out of it.

I have more but I'll tell you later. Nothing too exciting, I promise.

Talk to you soon,

Paul

Habla Pepsi

Larry,

What's up dog? How have you been? I've been better, to be totally honest. I've had some pain in my shoulder for the last three or four months. So, last week, I decided that it was high-time to get my butt on over to my doctor so that he could X-ray me and find out the cause of the problem. He did the X-ray and much to my surprise, he didn't find anything. He gave me a little Celebrex for the inflammation and sent me on my merry way. On the way down to the lobby, I felt very parched and as I rounded the corner on my way out the door, I noticed a Mexican family (or maybe they were Hispanic-Americans) standing in front of the Pepsi machine. I sauntered up to them very quietly and said to the father, "Daddy, can I have a Pepsi?" They looked at me a little bewildered and I can't say that I blame them. The looks on their faces was a mixture of confusion and more confusion. I thought that maybe they didn't understand why I wanted the Pepsi in the first place. I said "I'm just very parched and I don't have any money". This seemed to placate them and the dad bought me a Pepsi. A mucho nice-o gesture, I would say. Afterwards, we all kind of walked out together (they were leaving too) and I would have to say that the journey from the Pepsi machine to the front door of the building was a bit awkward. I did love that Pepsi though.

Anyway, just goes to show that there are still some nice people in the world, present company excluded.

I'll have more later.

Paul

Grim death

Larry,

What up playa? Long time, no see. I know that I haven't written in a while. What can I say. Nothing surprises me anymore. Well, almost nothing. Here's one for you.

I was outside smoking with Eric the other day. We were out by the gazebo at work. Apparently, there's this new Captain that is a former smoker and he's decreed that we all be away from the doors when we smoke. I call that pussy. Anyway, we were out by the gazebo which, by the way, is a magnet for wasps. As you know, I've never been stung. Not by anything. Well, girls are the exception. So, Mickey was out there smoking and I ducked and darted because a wasp was nearby and then she says, "If I get stung, I'll see ya'll at the hospital" or something to that effect. I, because I've read that book The Worst Case Scenario Handbook, tell her that I'd be happy to give her a tracheotomy, if she goes into anaphylactic shock. I'm cool like that. I know how to do it so I would be happy to oblige, especially to save a life and get my name in the paper, natch. She then proceeds to tell me that she'd rather die than get help from me. She tells me that all I know of medicine, I learned on ER and I should watch her die rather than save her life. I assure her that the book I read was a valid book and that the procedure is very simple. She insists. She'd rather die than to receive a tracheotomy from me. I didn't even say that she would actually need that procedure to live. But she was quite insistent and I too am intent in my resolve. Should Mickey get stung by a bee and for some reason, be without medical care, I shall refuse to help her. Really, I think at this point, I'd rather see her perish than help her. Sad, isn't it. People are pretty fucked up.

Guess what? I'd still give her the tracheotomy. I'm dying to do it. I always carry a Bic just in case.

See you in hell, Mickey.

Take care and stay cool,

Paul

X-Ray

Larry,

My man! My main man. How is it going? That's such a dumb greeting. Remind me never to say that again. I hear people say that to me sometimes and I want to tell them, "Pretty shitty, actually". Or, "Man am I horny" would be nice. In truth, most people say that and I want to punch them in their chipper faces and tell them to go fuck themselves in their asses. But mostly, I say that I'm doing ok. But if you ask me that, know that I want to hurt you.

So, I got an intern at work. Sort of. He's been hired for six weeks to help out while Angela is on maternity leave and Tim's out with a ruptured neck or something. He's just about to go off to college and he's in this for some extra money. I want him to do my job so that I have more time to surf the internet and read articles about zombie dogs. By the way, there are zombie dogs. Ask me how! So, Todd is there for the next couple of months and right off I have him cleaning out storage closets and throwing away shit that should have been thrown away ten years ago. Meanwhile, I'm sitting at my desk getting some much needed rest-from all of the delegating, you see. And I'm checking out this urban legend website because I notice that on this particular day, they are dealing with the urban legend about the girl that gets the coke bottle stuck up in her business-her lady business-and I remember that in high school, we had a story like that. I don't mean that I did, but I remember hearing about it only it was a hot dog and a glow stick. Two different stories. Both probably untrue. So I was eager to find out if the story was true. It turns out that many people have had many things stuck up their asses over the last 50 years. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Ok, I'll tell you. This is a pretty fucking disturbing list:

A bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's syrup, an ax handle, a nine-inch zucchini, countless dildoes and vibrators including one 14-inch model complete with two D-cell batteries, a plastic spatula, a 9-1/2-inch water bottle, a deodorant bottle, a Coke bottle, a large bottle cap, numerous other bottles, a 3-1/2-inch Japanese glass float ball, an 11-inch carrot, an antenna rod, a 150-watt light bulb, a 100-watt frosted bulb, a cucumber, a screwdriver, four rubber balls, 72-1/2 jeweler's saws (all from one patient, but not all at the same time, although 29 were discovered on one occasion), a paperweight, an apple, an onion, a plastic toothbrush package, two bananas, a frozen pig's tail (it got stuck when it thawed), a ten-inch length of broomstick, an 18-inch umbrella handle and central rod, a plantain encased in a condom, two Vaseline jars, a whiskey bottle with a cord attached, a teacup, an oil can, a six-by-five-inch tool box weighing 22 ounces, a six-inch stone weighing two pounds (in the latter two cases the patients died due to intestinal obstruction), a baby powder can, a test tube, a ball-point pen, a peanut butter jar, candles, baseballs, a sand-filled bicycle inner tube, sewing needles, a flashlight, a half-filled tobacco pouch, a turnip, a pair of eyeglasses, a hard-boiled egg, a carborundum grindstone (with handle), a suitcase key, a syringe, a file, tumblers and glasses, a polyethylene waste trap from the U-bend of a sink, and much, much more.

I told you. And I just read where one guy who was feeling depressed, stuck a 6-inch paper tube into his rectum and then dropped in it a lighted fire cracker. As the kids say, he tore that ass up.

But that's all beside the point. I'm reading the story and at the end of the article, there's a link to another site on which one can find x-rays of all sorts of random shit that people have put in their asses. I'm reading this when Todd walks up behind me, ready for his next assignment. I wanted to close the window but couldn't. All I could do was smile and laugh. He had to have seen the title page. Rectal Foreign Bodies. It really stands out, doesn't it?

Todd needs a bell.

Be good. Stay out of trouble.

Paul

The Eclair

Larry,

I know that this is long overdo but what can I tell you? I won't lie. I haven't been busy. Just lazy and lacking the energy to do anything that remotely resembles productivity. Wouldn't want to break this unbelievably long streak. Thirty years and still going. I know, the lady doth protesteth too much or something like that.

Just wanted to get your input regarding a story that Jared told me the other day. He said that he had recently, at work, done a favor for one of his subordinates. He didn't have to but apparently she's a hard worker and an all around likeable gal so he felt that she deserved some love. I'm not sure what he did but that's beside the point. He knew that her husband was a pastry chef so when she asked him if there was anything that she could do to repay him, he jumped on the opportunity quickly and asked her politely for an eclair. In all fairness, I see now that he was asking her husband for an eclair and she was merely the messenger. Nevertheless, this is all that he asked in return for the favor that he had done. The following two days she brought in brought two big pastry boxes filled with the most succulent and decadent pastries that one could imagine. Which would have been great if not for the fact that in neither of the boxes was an eclair to be found! Quite a dilemma. Because if it were me, I would have to ask about the eclair. I wouldn't be able to not ask. He won't though because he has a vagina and what can you do about these things. I am left to speculate as to the reason for the missing eclair. I'd like to think that the eclair is his kryptonite. I can picture this guy at a fancy culinary arts institute in France, studying with world-renowned pastry chefs, and when they get to the chapter on eclairs, this guy just falls apart. He cries in his flour, nothing will rise, his face is covered with the cream that goes inside the eclairs...and not the really white cream-the kind that comes in the cheap eclairs, but the good yellowish cream that is the trademark of the fancy eclair. It's in his hair, it has been slathered all over his his face and mouth by his cold and tormented French instructor, Jean Philippe. This is what I'd like to believe.

More to come.

Paul

Peggy

Larry,

What's shaking, Hollywood? Not much here. Same old, same old. This is really not a funny story that I am about to tell you. Instead, it's a sad one. This is the story of why it's sad to be a clown.

I was working out at work the other day. I know, that's redundant. Up yours. I was working out alone in the gym. Darryl comes in as he has been known to do from time to time. I usually go late in the afternoon and I think that he likes to go late as well. Maybe because it makes the afternoons shorter. I don't know. It doesn't matter. He gets on the elliptical thing next to me-which is not the bike thing but the one that's like running only not the treadmill thing-and begins his work out. There is some chit chat I'm sure. In walks Peggy, Darryl's admin assistant. Great lady. She asks me about something work-related involving toner, which, as you know, is a big part of my job. I tell that I'd be glad to help her after I finish working out. She leaves with a smile. I have that affect on ladies. When she leaves, I turn to Darryl and say "Peggy! Great lady. I love her; she's so resourceful and smart". I turn to face forward, bowing my head ever so slightly and say, rather loudly, "This is for Peggy!" and I begin to "run" on this machine like there's no tomorrow.

Good stuff. He didn't bite.

I think that he said "Woohoo". It's no fun when people play along.

Take care and write back soon, you fairy.

Paul

Balls

Larry,

How's it going? Things are good here. I have much to tell you but I will keep this brief as it is late and I am very tired. This past weekend I went to eat dinner at Anna's parent's house. The dinner was good, the grilled shrimp a bit overcooked, but delicious nevertheless. After dinner and some casual conversation, Terry, Anna's stepfather, invited me upstairs for a friendly game of pool. I obliged as I am always eager to accept a challenge. It didn't take long for me to realize that I was in over my head. I haven't played pool in a while and I haven't played pool well in my lifetime. As we played nine ball, I felt the conversation was lacking and I tried to think of something to say. I reached for anything that might begin a conversation and all I could think of was to comment on the balls that we were using for our game. Honestly, I contemplated, for just a moment, saying, "I like your balls". Then, knowing that it would come out wrong, I thought perhaps, "You have pretty balls" would be more appropriate. Finally, I came to the conclusion that "Cool balls" would be ok. None were. The conversation never went anywhere. Damned balls.

Hope that all is well. More soon.

Paul

The Towel

Larry,

I know that it's been awhile. Sorry. The move, etc. has kept me busy. You'll be glad to know that I am about 50% settled in and I imagine that the last 50% will be a piece of cake.

I work out at work, almost every day. It's become a routine and one that I am not embarrassed to admit I entertain. It's been a challenge for me though, what with the towels and the workout clothes. At first, I would bring one shirt and one pair of shorts to work and leave them in a locker all week. Gross, I know. But, usually by the next day, everything would be dry and only slightly smelly. However, after 9.11, we were forced to evacuate our lockers and asked to not use them on a regular basis. We were allowed to store our belongings in the lockers on a daily basis but the authorities decided that it would be best if we not keep things locked in there on a more permanent basis, for safety's sake. Long story short (too late, I know), I've had no place to store a towel or clothes each day. My solution to this dilemma was to bring clean clothes in a gym bag on a daily basis and use someone else's towel. What? I know. I am a bit of a germophobe so this is no doubt, a contradiction of extraordinary proportions. Nevertheless, that was my solution. And it works most of the time. But as time passed, I began to realize that I was in fact, using someone else's towel and I began to wonder, often as I dried hurriedly, whose towel it was and were they not occasionally in the locker room with me, watching as I dried, trying desperately to muster up the courage to confront me and demand that I stop using their towel to dry my privates and all of the other parts, of course. These days, the awkwardness of the situation is probably far more serious in my head than it is for anyone else. At least, I imagine that it is. Now, when I am done showering and the locker room is occupied by others, I must often decide whether or not I want to force this impending confrontation or drip-dry. More often than not, I dry quickly, near the stalls and hidden from view, and am forced to walk back to my locker completely naked, but without the evidence in hand. It's tough, not because I am ashamed. Difficult because I have to work with these people and I think that it's a little difficult and unusual to work with people that you can imagine naked. Especially those of the same gender.

Creepy.

What's up Steve. Here you are in the hall and I have seen you naked. How uncomfortable it must be for you. It is for me as well. Anyway, good day.

See.

Sorry again about the down-time. I promise to be more diligent. I'm not sure what diligent means.

Sincerely,

Paul

Neighbors

Dear Larry,

OK, Anna and I were outside smoking earlier. Not late-maybe 10:00 PM. She likes to sit on the steps leading to the apartments upstairs. I prefer to stand near my neighbors door. It's close to the steps for one so that I can have a normal conversation with the person sitting on the steps. Two, there's a very handy rail upon which I can sit my drink if I were to have one. Tonight I did not have a beverage but that is beside the point. So, we're talking about Anna's vacation time or something to do with her job and speaking in a pretty quiet tone as far as I could tell when we hear the door behind me unlock. Then, not surprisingly, the neighbor lady cracks the door about a half an inch and just peers out with her beady little crazy eyes for like 15 seconds. As soon as I realized that she wasn't going to say anything, and it was obvious that she was only doing this as some sort of attempt at intimidation, I turn back around to face Anna and we continue the conversation. She shuts the door and then promptly cracks it again, as if to get our attention-like we didn't hear it the first time. I glanced back rather nonchalantly, thinking that this time she might actually engage someone in conversation. She didn't. Instead, she puts on her clothes, calls the front office I believe, and steps out of her apartment. No eye contact. We overhear her clearly asking someone to send someone over to her apartment right away. I thought that it might have been the police but I guess that she didn't have the balls to do that. She walks out and gets in her car and drives off. Me and Anna, finished smoking at this point, head back inside to finish watching an excellent episode of 24. About 5 minutes later, I hear her (the neighbor) pulling her car back in and see that she is accompanied by the security guard because I've noticed the flashing yellow lights of his security pick-up truck. I don't know what they did out there but no one ever came to the door. I can only imagine that the security guard showed up and asked her what the problem was only to have her reply "There were people outside...and they were... (choking back the sobs of frustration) they were talking". I wonder what the security guy said. He has more patience than me. I want so badly to leave her a little note on her door. It would say "Dear Over-Reactor" and then something else, probably insulting. It may be too late for that though. And she's not really worth it. I think that it's a white thing with her. I hear other people talking loudly outside much later in the evening-I've even heard her come in late-and to my knowledge she hasn't said anything to anyone else. I wish that she would have come to the door tonight. I had a "Shove It" for her all cocked and loaded. It would have been so great to see the look on her face. Fucking neighbors.

Eight days until I move. I can't hardly wait.

WBS,

Paul

School Spirit

Dear Larry,

You know that I've sort of followed Steve Spurrier's career for the past 15 years or so. Well, maybe you didn't. In fact, you might not even know who that is but I needed to preface the content with this bit of information so that you would at least understand the context of this, my latest offering. He's a football coach and in my opinion, the greatest football coach that ever lived. He was at Florida for awhile and then he took a job with the Redskins and now he's back in the college ranks, this time with the South Carolina Gamecocks, which brings me to the point. I have recently discovered a coworker who shares my interest in this team; her because she is an alum and me obviously because I follow the coach. Not surprisingly, I just bumped into her out in the hallway at work and she looks at me and says, "Go, Cocks". I know that this won't be the last time that I hear it from her and I want to join in her enthusiasm but I can't with a straight face participate in her school chant for a couple of reasons. #1. The fact that an attractive woman has approached me only to say "Go Cocks" catches me off-guard every time that it happens. At that point, I'm stunned. I don't know what to say. My first instinct is to say yes and hope that this time, she's not talking about the football team but me instead. #2 If I say it, then it feels just a little too gay, I suppose. Not that there's anything wrong with that, right? I mean, it's not like I am opposed to cock or that I am cock-averse. I just prefer mine over any and all others, that's all. I don't think that makes me anti-gay by any means. And today's incident was the second time that it happened. I don't know what to do. I suppose that when I run in to her in the hallway and she says "Go Cocks", I'll just nod my head in support and continue about my business.

It is sort of liberating though, to be able to talk about cocks in the workplace without it being dirty or inappropriate. I think that were I comfortable with the whole thing, me and this woman could sit around and talk about cocks all day. But I think that in the end, I would feel a little icky...and maybe slightly aroused. And I can't have that at work.

That's all for now.

Paul

The Wire

Larry,

What up dog? Lots going on here but I can't even begin to cover it all. However, something happened this week that reminded me of an episode of CYE. I am moving soon, as you know. I am intent upon getting rid of the home phone. Truth be told, I get more telemarketing calls than I do calls for me so I don't feel like I will miss it all that much. So, in order to get rid of the home phone, I had to set up a wireless network so that I can connect to the Tivo service everyday to download the program guide. Hence, the wireless network. Long story short, it was a pain in the ass. 2 days of torture and frustration but finally I got it. Now I can get rid of the home phone. But you know what the best thing about it is? I had this 100 ft long telephone cord that stretched halfway around my living space. Not that big a deal unless you're a big shot Hollywood movie star. Nevertheless, it was a chore. Specifically, because it crossed the threshold between the living room and the bedroom so I had to walk over it every time that I went to the bathroom, and you know that this trip is a trip that I take frequently. Needless to say, I have tripped over this cord maybe twice a day for the last 3 years. It's very annoying. Now, the cord is gone and the corner of the room is clear of any obstruction. It's so amazing, this feeling of relief and satisfaction. The funny thing is though, that every time that I walk by this space, I find that I am stepping over this cord that is no longer there. It will take some time, I'm sure, to get used to it not being there. Still, it's very disconcerting each time that I realize I am stepping over this invisible cord. It reminded me of that episode of your show, although, between you and me, I've never seen it. I believe that I fell asleep before I got to the end of the DVD and never went back and watched it. I mean, I know that you moved because of some wire, but that's about it. Anyway, I thought that my cord issue was like that phenomenon when the amputees have this sensation in their limbs that are no longer there. Except in my case, it's the phantom cord.

So, that's been the most satisfying thing that's happened all week. Inconsequential to some, but it makes all the difference to me. You know what I'm talking about.

I hope that you are well.

Sincerely,

Paul

Got Religion?

Dear Larry,

Hey! I just needed to vent a little. Not real happy with the work situation right now. I'm stuck doing menial tasks so often these days that I almost dread going to work. Today was no different. I had to move PCs again. Usually I have some help from colleagues but apparently all have decided that they are too busy to do this sort of grunt work which leaves me the only responsible party. I mean, here I am with an MBA and yet I am stuck doing work that a high school kid could do. On one hand, it tickles me a little to be paid so well to do what amounts to heavy lifting but on the other hand I feel ashamed that I have been relegated to perform such a chore. So, this morning after having moved two people's computers, which was completely pointless by the way, I headed back downstairs. For some reason I stopped by a copy room, for what I can't recall. I think that maybe I wanted to sabotage a printer or something. Instead, I found several leaflets advertising some sort of church Easter function nearby. How inappropriate! You know that I work for the government so I don't need to tell you how important the separation of church and state is to our lives, nay our very existence. Well, principle got the better of me. I searched furtively for a pen and having found one, and without arousing any suspicion, I returned to the copy room and proceeded to scribble 666 on each of the four flyers. I felt better. And hopefully I taught someone a very important lesson about what should and should not be discussed in the workplace. You know as well as anyone that I have nothing against religion. I wouldn't say that I am areligious. In fact, I think that I happen to be religiousful. At the very least, I am cognizant that religion exists and that I should be thankful for God when good things happen.

Not a very eventful day by any means. But I do hope that I have pointed out to someone the error of his or her ways. It is the least that I can do.

I hope that California is as wonderful now as it has been here for the last week or so. Talk to you soon.

Paul