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L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to mcsweeneysmail@yahoo.com. Letters received will be added to this page in forward chronological order, largely unedited. Thank you.] - - - - Date: Thu, 23 Mar 2000 From: Kiersten Conner-Sax Subject: Chuck Easterling & Dianna Dear McSweeney's, In reference to Chuck Easterling's message in reference to my message, in which I said Chuck was my hero and Chuck said there was a woman named Dianna who had no interest in dating him: Dianna is clearly foolish and shallow. Were I not married, I would crusade for your love. Alas, I am married, but I have many single friends, and if you live in greater New York, I will gladly introduce you to them. In fact, I have a cheap-ass little video camera, and we could broadcast you're meeting them live, on the McSweeney's web site. Here are brief descriptions of my friends: Alyson: 5'4", auburn hair, just received her Ph.D. in neurobiology, but you wouldn't know it to talk to her. She has a tendancy to dance around and wear ill-fitting shoes. Sarah: 5'8" (at least), brown curly hair. She's really Alyson's friend and I don't know her that well, but she's dating this guy who's already broken up with her twice, and I'm sure she'll be single again soon. Justine: 5'5", long light brown hair, just finished medical school. She'll buy you chocolate. There are probably more, but now I'm thirsty. Let me know. Kiersten - - - - Date: Thu, 23 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I found this test on a web site devoted to a specific stereotype. I have not edited the test for spelling. Alright, bassically there are a few very important factors to bieng a "insert stereotype here"..here is a simple quiz for all of you "so-called" "insert stereotype here"out there. 1. Do you have naturually wavy/curly hair which you straighten each day
and
or/ have highlighted by a treandy salon nearest you?
OK so if you answered at least...well ill do this like a cosmo
quiz
Addendum by me: If you can't spell check your emails you are the ultimate "insert stereotype here" Yours truly, Queen Esther - - - - Date: Thu, 23 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I wrote this quiz as an alternative to a quiz that I read on the web: Social Anxiety Disorder: How to find out if you are in need of Paxyl¨ 1. Do you ignore sales people when they say "Hello"?
Scoring:
22-27 Points: Go directly home (take a cab, no public transportation), pull the blanket over your head, order in dinner and make sure that you have the exact change including tip so as to avoid a lengthy encounter with the delivery person. Fill your prescription for Paxyl¨ over the Internet. 17-21 Points: You are on the verge of S.A.D. If you just take a moment to listen to the annoying girls discussing their shoes, behind you in the theater you may reach the full-blown stage of S.A.D. Stay away from Williamsburg and Greenwich Village, and do not go anywhere near Washington Square Park-friendly strangers flock to these locations. 7-16 Points: You are relatively safe. A city dweller with a slight don't fuck with me attitude, but nothing to be preoccupied. Continue with your friendly self. Ignorance is bliss I hear. 1-6 Points: Just go back to Kansas or whatever little friendly place you came from. You do not belong in New York. You should not be talking to that person who is obviously not interested in hearing about your great aunt's second wedding. Yours truly, All By Myself - - - - Date: Thu, 23 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, At West Belmar Elementary School, we concentrated largely on bodily functions. There were literally dozens of verses to the Diarrhea Song, only two of which come to mind right now: When you're climbing up the ladder
When you're walking down the hall
There were more, but they've left my head after twenty or so years. I'm disappointed, because I'm fairly sure I knew them all at one point. Perhaps someone with a better head can remember. There was also something about greasy gobs of gopher parts or something, but I never really learned it. Oh, one time the teachers were on strike and a bunch of us sang "We Don't Need No Education" at them. Ten-foot-weenies never came up. Oh, there was some girl named Sharon Mitchell who no one I knew ever saw, but she was supposed to be pretty unattractive, I guess, because boys would always chant at each other, "you love Sharon Mitchell!" Thank You. --Ken Alper - - - - From: Liam Black
Dear Chaps, I felt that addressing it to "McSweeneys" or "Sirs" would seem starched, so I'm experimenting with different salutory phrases. I was just curious as to whether or not you were aware that your Internet Tendency is currently nominated for something called a "Webby Award"? I discovered it quite by mistake. I was attempting to rack up some "chic points" by brushing up on the Utne Reader (for all those interested, I scored an astonishing 40 out of 200 on their Emotional Intelligence Quiz) when I came to a desparate plea to cast my vote for Utne on the aforementioned awards site. I trundled over in the manner of trundling befitting a man enjoying an extremely satisfying bagel whilst walking down a crowded street. Or, rather, I did the "cyberspace" equivalent of this activity, which is less interesting as all I had to do was click on a hyperlink. I'd really appreciate a bagel just now. At any rate, I flipped open the Humor category because I was seeking some sort of assistance in the sisyphean battle I fight daily against boredom, and felt that these prestigious awards (I'm not actually certain if they're prestigious or not) might point me in the right direction. In a manner of speaking they did, though I've already been in that direction and as I was looking for something new, the old direction seemed briefly lacklustre, which made me quite sad. I then recalled how near we had come to losing your lovely Tendency, and was happy once again that you: 1) Existed
I'm not sure if these awards are the real deal, the yardstick by which all things web are measured, or if they are merely a ruse. Perhaps after your site is nominated, you have to purchase some sort of lawn decoration from them. For the discerning reader, I'd like to note that I found nothing related to lawn decoration upon the Webby web site. I didn't stay for long or investigate to thoroughly, however. It is possible that this is all a scam to move black-panelled trucks full of lawn gnomes around America. Sleek, powerful engines of kitsch landscaping. Just to prove that I'm not lying, the web addres is www.webbys.com. Or, just as a special favour the HTML to include this when you're posting my letter would be. The Webby Awards & Lawn Decoration Supply House. Please note that I am XML compatible with my use of entirely lower case, according to the must recent stylesheet which I possess. If you already knew about this, you can feel free to disregard my letter. Also, I'd like to point out that I've received no response in connection with the fruit cake issue, and it would be a shame for it to go to waste. Toodle-oo,
P.S. As your discretion was much appreciated in connection with my parenthesising in the last letter, I would appreciate it if you would not inform either The Washington Post or the New York Times of my excessive use of quotation marks. I am well aware that it is my duty to report, not to infer. I hold this close to my heart at all times, but the darn things are just too kissably cute. - - - - From: "JMcBirney"
Dear McSweeney's, I just wanted to let Amanda know that parts of her Pepsi-dini song sound familiar to me. Especially the part that goes: Down down baby, down by the roller coaster,
Except the version I remember says: Down down baby, down by the roller coaster,
Then it goes on to say something like: Sugar sugar cocoa puffs, sugar sugar pow
I remember doing the hand motions as well but I can't for the life of me remember the song....and it's funny you wrote about it too because that is one of the songs that drives me crazy not to remember! Of course, I do remember all the words and hand movements to 'Old Lady Mack' but I'll spare everyone here and not write all the words. Unless of course someone requests me to, then I would be happy to oblige. I often wonder how much smarter I would be if my mind wasn't clogged with old grade school rhymes...and of course, every word to almost every popular song from the 80's. Bored at work (as usual), Jen McBirney - - - - Date: Fri, 24 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, My memory is not at all what it used to be. That's the first thing. The second thing is this: I love your website. This is the fourth thing: It was recommended to me by one of my patients. Here's that third thing: My patients talk about the web all the time and usually it is some pretty scary stuff. 3a) Killer robots, autopsy pictures, nasty pranks at some sclemiel's expense, mysogyny up the "wazoo." That's what they generally "recommend" to me. 3b) Some of my patients are very hostile to the therapeutic process. I don't take it personally. V: Me and some of the others are skipping out of work to go see a movie so I must go! I look forward to reading your book! Judy Kellner, PhD - - - - From: "Butler, Christopher (Nick Online)"
Dear McSweeney's, Dear McSweeney's (Plus of course TG Gibbon, Amanda Summers, Sam Stark & Ron Dulin--and any other writer whose letter I overlooked due to amblyopia), The vitriolic, defiant and fist-shaking Jesus Christ playground anthem has gone largely untouched by would-be shedders of light, and for this I may be thankful, after all. It's OK. As for poor Mary Beth Feeney... well, there appears to be some debate regarding whether or not she was ever endowed with the proverbial stout cock in the first place. Perhaps we had it wrong in New York. With respect to alternate theories: A) Mussolini, I believe, boasted ten feet of ziti at no point in his life, He was, however, publicly castrated. B) The genie. I don't find genies funny, but I agree that a genie is more likely to swing ten feet of snake than, say, a prepubescent Long Island female--even a fictional prepubescent Long Island female. In fact, endowing oneself with ten feet of retractable penis is just the brand of deviance I'd expect from a bottled spirit! C) McSweeney's ten foot weenie? w/r/t the 6 foot 4 v. 5 foot 4 debate, I will site to the alliterative clues in the preceding lines. It would appear there is a preponderance of the "S" sound. But, sure, I guess it's better if Mary Beth loses a more substantial percentage of her pendular pee pee. The mysteries perpetuate. Here's another one from the playground. It requires that you insert two names. I will select, at random, two names. It goes like this: Down by the river where nobody goes There lies Allison without any clothes Along comes Jeff, swingin' his chain POPPED open his zipper and out it came! Three months later and all is well... Six months later she started to swell... Nine months later and out it came! Little Jeffrey junior, swingin' his chain! AOL instant messages accepted by zsumoz. You are all very tender.
- - - - From: "Butler, Christopher (Nick Online)"
Dear McSweeney's, A) I am horrified to note the misspelling of cite in my previous letter. We all make small mistakes while ingesting stimulants/huffing gas on the job--am I right? B) This Galapagos get together landed me in the hot seat. One of the bartenders was clad in a shortish, mildly plaidish skirt and longish, yellowish soccer type socks. Well, this bartender's physical atrributes were deemed more than acceptable by my compainions, which fact I innocently shared with my loving girlfriend. She replied, "Um." Then I committed the following gaffe: "Well, she DOES have great legs." Penalty Box. Doghouse.Instant shut-down. What happened to you at Galapagos?
- - - - Date: Fri, 24 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I subscribe to one of those many targeted-marketing e-mail services. Mine is called "Bonus Mail." I filled out a profile, and the service sends me advertisements about websites that I get "points" for visiting. Eventually, I have enough points that I cash in for gift certificates. I choose barnesandnoble.com gift certificates. But, I digress. Yesterday, I got an e-mail about a new dieting website (I don't know how that applies to my profile). The website has an amazing new dieting product called "Fat to Firm." Anyone, any age (apparently) can go from fat to firm with their program. Here's the problem: Their website address is "www.fattofirm.com." Do you see the problem? To me, that reads "fatto firm," like a firm of fattos, or a firm for fattos. The only thing worse would be "fatto farm." That can't be the image that they want or mean to project. Can it? But can this merely be an online linguistic oversight on their part? Have the creators of websites and Internet businesses really gotten this sloppy? Probably. Unfortunately. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: 24 Mar 00
Dear McSweeney's, I fully realise everything now; I can't afford a therapist. My book was spotted being read on the G train by my friend "Marla" (a lovely woman from a lovely family, especially her brother "Good John Slivovitz" whose nickname predates "Good Will Hunting," a movie for god-only-knows whom, unlike "Space Truckers" which is for everybody, and actually refers to a time long ago in a distant land where there was an "Evil John Slivovitz" who palled around with Wotan and Big Head and possibly Dr Claw while studiously avoiding Excellent Dude and Ryan Johnson II, although my friend "Nabe," whom I sometimes call "Trevor," and who is Marla's special man-friend, might suggest some collusion between the two shady bands). But Spring is in full swing and, aside from moderate to heavy C.H.U.D. in the air, I have few complaints, so here are my lottery picks: 21-2-53-36-82-8. Thanks for your help,
ps- What the hell is tandem jumping?
- - - - From: "Mike Topp"
Dear McSweeney's: Here is a childhood chant that is sung in Korea, except there they sing it in Korean. I translated this with help from someone from Korea: Calf, calf,
Look like Mommy. Sincerely, Mike Topp - - - - Date: 24 Mar 00 MST
Dear McSweeney's, I would like to thank Amanda Summers for sharing her puppet design. Puppet shows are a lot of fun and everyone should try his or her hand at making a puppet. If you get good at it now, you will certainly shine when you have children of puppet-making age. I also recommend that your readers peruse some of Amanda's other published writings, which can be found at http://www.frognet.net/~csummers/poems.htm, and which are quite good. "Where Do I Live?" and "Night" make excellent use of repetition and variation thereupon. The short fiction work, "THE BOY WHO WAS OBSESSED WITH HIS DOG," is captivating. As the McSweeney's community grows, we should each take advantage of the fascinating resources we readers have to offer each other. Support your fellow McSweeney's readers! And when you visit Amanda's room, please give my best to Sugar, Pounce, Sassy, and Izzy the Lizard. And let's not forget Chelsea, who is, after all, Amanda's best friend. Take care,
- - - - From: "Newhart, Bryson"
Dear McSweeney's, Being a fan of any event featuring a hubcap Frisbee tournament, not to mention beer and shouting, I decided to travel all the way from Moscow, Russia to make an appearance at your now infamous Galapagos gala, knowing, in advance, that it would indeed be infamous, and thinking, "a good chance for some exercise," as I planned to jog through Europe and then swim across the ocean. Once there, I intended to demonstrate my Frisbee catching skills by intercepting a rusty hubcap with my teeth -- something I'd been practicing on the side of the highway for months. I was then hoping to claim my Amazon review prize in the form of a copy of issue number 4. For months I've been waiting for its arrival in my mailbox, and let me tell you something, living inside a mailbox is far from easy even for us Russians. I also thought, "Maybe the MR will award my wonderful cut and paste endorsement in some other way. Rather than simply fulfilling my subscription, maybe he'll offer me a sizeable chunk of ground floor stock in the McSweeney's restaurant franchise. Or perhaps just a sizeable chunk of ground floor from his Park Slope brownstone. Such a chunk of rich brown stone could feed a family of Chechens for months. Too bad I'll be hoarding it beneath my bed." These were my thoughts as I chugged a bottle of vodka, put on my wetsuit and snowshoes, and did a few preparatory stretches. But then I noticed the time. "Damn," I said to Vanya, my bearded aunt -- Russian law now requires there be a bearded aunt in every apartment -- "I do not have time to jog across Europe. I guess I'll have to teleport." Vanya spat out the dirty potato she'd been sucking on. "Luchshe hui v ruke chem pizda na gorizonte," she replied. Roughly translated: "Better a prick in the hand than a cunt on the horizon," meaning, "A bird in hand is worth two in the bush," or, "A belly of beer is worth five in the face." We Russians are known for our effusive farewells. Generally I find teleporting to be a fairly reliable means of travel. But last Thursday I experienced complications. Instead of appearing in the Brooklyn social club beneath the bar, in the balcony, on the shitter, or in some other convenient place, I did not even appear in human form. Instead, I materialized on a large blue canvas behind the stage in the form of a naked, ambiguously-gendered figure with no neck or face. And if this wasn't enough, I also seemed to be wearing a red cape: a proud symbol, no doubt, of my communist heritage -- one that I wouldn't be ashamed to wear in almost any other situation -- but in this case, an extremely embarrassing addition. As I looked nervously around me, I noticed that people were laughing, many of them pointing with long sticks, others standing on chairs to pour beers down each other's throats. Fortunately, I soon realized that they were not in fact laughing at me, but at a man below me on the stage, in a black suit, saying funny things into a microphone. During the intermission I pealed myself off the wall and decided to go for a dip in the inky lap pool, my two-dimensional appearance helping me to easily slip between the rowdy McSweeney's fans circling the room in bumper cars. That my body was paper thin also proved helpful in the black, seemingly bottomless lap pool which I quickly discovered was actually only a few inches deep. I discovered this when I tossed myself off a man's shoulders and landed in it like a piece of cardboard dropped in a puddle. Pleasantly surprised to find that I had the pool to myself, I flopped in a desperate butterfly backstroke for a while and then assisted an 8-year-old boy who rode across the pool on my stomach, using me like a skimboard so he could fight his way to the bar with numchucks. When I emerged, my girth had returned but the pool was empty. Apparently, like those flat sponges that expand when wet, I had absorbed all the water. Wrapped in the red cape and feeling a bit bloated, I lumbered through the crowds now dancing in synch and plumped in the barber's chair, not knowing that the hair on my head was in fact only a tattoo of hair caused by the inky water, my actual hair having been lost in the teleport. I was feeling inspired at this point by Neal Pollack's heartwarming tale of Paris, and I therefore affected my French accent, the one I usually reserve for only my closest friends. "Monsieur McSweeney," I said, presenting my bald head to him like an overcooked honey glazed turkey. "Please snip away." He grabbed my scalp as though plucking a melon and gave it a smack. "But you are bald," he said, to which everyone laughed. Monsieur McSweeney then rubbed away the ink as though polishing a bowling ball and revealed my pink scalp. Several Italians leapt to their feet, laughing hysterically and ripping out their hair. "Ciao! Testa di cazzo!" they yelled. "Maybe you need some of this on your head first, eh? Parrucchiere! Spit out your chewing gum. Paste some of this on the bald man's pate!" This was extremely embarrassing and I suddenly lost my ability to teleport. Forced to leave on foot, I skulked away as a caveman appeared in the audience and smashed a guitar over his head. Meanwhile, on the stage, Mr. Pollack tried to speak over the sounds of breaking glass, unable to get the attention of the boisterous audience now stacking themselves into a giant human pyramid which kept getting knocked down again and again by some rogue still flying about in a bumper car. Mr. Pollack's tale was a simple one about a man in a furry red diaper and a platinum nipple ring speculating in a sunken living room on the prospect of becoming a slave owner, but these literary hooligans wanted nothing more than to transform their collective body into a human staircase leading to nothing but the pinnacle of their own vanity. To save face, I crawled between the legs of people running to add their weight to the human tower while others, noticing that I was on my knees, got to their knees as well, thinking perhaps that I was attempting to form the base to a rival human pyramid. This was not so. I was merely trying to escape. When I made it to the bar room it was empty except for an accordion-playing mime, a woman tearing off layer after layer of clothing to demand sex, a man performing dental work on the bar with homemade drills sterilized in gin, and a gator-wrestling Indian Chief searching for his lost finger. A woman standing at the bar in a steak dress handed me a bottle of A1 and said, "Munch my collar studboy." Outside I briefly stumbled past a white stretch limousine toward a brightly-lit dumpster with a canopy bed inside it. But then I decided to take the L train to Canarsie. From there, I figured, I could swim back to Russia. On the platform I ran into my girlfriend's cousin Igor, a one-legged contortionist from St. Petersburg. He was cruising around on roller-skates -- one on his single leg and one on each of his crutches -- gripping a cup of change in his toothless gums. When I ran into him our combined momentum sent him into a spin, much like the McSweeney's tripod thingy only with wheels, a rapid spin applied to it, and a torso protruding from the candle. I didn't get a chance to say hello. Poor Igor just kept spinning, faster and faster. He was still spinning even as I boarded the subway. Sucked like a fish into the throat of Brooklyn, on my way to Jamaica Bay -- without, alas, the new McSweeney's, but sated by an evening of surprises -- I closed my eyes and imagined the white limousine somewhere above, perhaps on the BQE, slowly walking on its hind legs like a drunken polar bear. "I am glad that I made this journey," I thought in my native Russian, "Even if I'm going to be late for work tomorrow." But I wasn't late. I arrived at the Kremlin right on time. A little wet from my swim, yes, but glad because it was St. Patrick's Day, Russia's favorite American holiday that is not really an American holiday, and because it was snowing -- a blizzard of Lucky Charms cereal -- and swashbuckling leprechauns, those happy little bastards, were parading through Red Square with wheelbarrows full of brightly-colored marshmallows, chanting, "They're magically delicious!" Yours, Bryce Newhart - - - - From: "Peter Bebergal"
Dear McSweeney's, It just so happened that after seeing an exhibit on tiarras, my wife, a friend, and my wife's sister were talking about the word "encrusted" and how this word automatically conjures up images of encrusted jewels, diamonds and rubies and whatnot. I said that when I heard the word "encrusted" I automatically thought of barnacles. Specifically barnacles on the hull of a sunken pirate ship in which there might be hidden gold dubloons. If you are scuba diving and you come across the ship and you peer into one of the portholes there is a good chance you would see an octopus inside, or maybe a giant squid. All my best, Peter Bebergal - - - - Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I was sad to see that someone else had written about mints. I was going to write about a lunch I had with M. Ryan Purdy (of Urich fame) and these tasty mints the restaurant provided their customers as a little treat after their meals. The dispenser looked something like what they have in BINGO parlors or one of those magic vacuum contraptions used for the lottery. The mint dispenser was not mechanized, however; all I had to do was tip it a little on its axis. It looked something like that ball in which you sometimes see hamsters running, though there was a hole from which the mints spilled out into my hand. I think I ate about ten mints. Here is what I was going to write had someone not already written about mints. I think it is a real shame someone already wrote about mints. A PLAY for MCSWEENEY'S (As I remember it happening.) Characters:
Scene One: New York City. SMK is eating mints. It is about noon (this was an early lunch). MRP, smoking (though cutting back because smoking is no longer good for you), walks next to SMK. SMK: These are good mints. Want one? MRP: No. SMK: They have a fruit in the middle, or something like fruit. MRP: Yes, I see. SMK: I've never had one of these before. MRP: They don't have Jelly Mints in the midwest? SMK: They are called Jelly Mints? MRP: Yes. SMK: I suppose that makes sense. They taste like jelly beans in the middle. They really are called Jelly Mints? MRP: Yes. (Birds chirp.) SMK: Really? They have a name? I thought they were just mints. Jelly Mints? MRP: Yes. SMK: Jelly Mints? MRP: Jelly Mints. SMK: Jelly Mints, really? (MRP does not answer. SMK is disturbed, but confident.) SMK: Jelly Mints. (A dog barks.) FINIS. [That is all. It would have been better had there been no prior letters about mints. Really. It would have. Just imagine it. Boggles the mind. I think. Though, that is what happens, I suppose, when one takes his own sweet time writing a letter. I am sorry. I'll be sure to get it right next time.] Yours, I remain, &c.,
- - - - Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I never thought I would be writing to you under these circumstances. You see, I am not the type of guy that these things normally happen to. I live in what most people would call a fairly decent apartment building on the upper east side of new york city. Friends of mine have had such things to say about it as: (1) "Decent place, I suppose." (2) "Seen worse." and so on...You can imagine such a place I am sure. The floors of the building (there are six) have been arranged in the fashion of the day, which places a successive row of doors alternating from one side of the hall to the other along either wall. As luck would have it, my front door is situated directly across from another identical door. Both doors are green, I should probably mention. The sounds of a radio playing can often be heard from behind this door. The radio is played at incredible volumes (as in: "I simply cannot believe a radio can be played at such a volume.") This radio usually has it dial tuned to a "talk" radio station. This past Saturday, exiting my particular apartment, I came across a nice old lady whom I presumed to be my neighbor. Keys were jangled. We exchanged a pleasant platitude or two. I nodded my head once or twice I am pretty sure, smiled, then walked away. The next day, as I was leaving, I encountered the very same woman. "Looks like we are keeping the same schedule" she said. She was smiling. "Yes," I said. "Yes we are..." then ran out. Later on that day I had a copious ammount of wine with a few of my young friends in a Spanish restaraunt downtown. Some of these people were as young as twenty one. Cigarettes were smoked. That night I went back to my apartment. It was late for people of almost any age. There was no radio playing. You see what I mean? Oh. Nevermind. Using this old woman, who just now reminds me of my eldery grandmother, to make some clever point or other, has all of a sudden depressed me very much. Incidentally, here are a few other things that have depressed me recently: 1) People waving their arms vigorously from passing motor boats to
people
on shore.
At any rate, here is a conversation I had not five minutes ago that may or may not tie things up nicely. 3/27/00 12:41 PM
Best,
- - - - From: "Mary Harris"
Dear McSweeney's, 1) After weeks of thumb-twiddling anticipation (during which I sent y'all some disgruntled, yet charming, emails), I've received the first installment of my Lifetime Subscription. It was delightful. It was just like the care packages my mother never sent me in college. Thanks. 2) While in Santa Monica recently, browsing what would be a serious art book store on the east coast (but, as it was located on That Other Coast, was staffed by friendly surfer-types rather than a cadre of grimacing men with caesar haircuts and fanciful glasses), I found a whole section of gag "medicine." For instance, some white powder and fake syringe in a plastic baggie, labelled "Be in Love -- Forever!!" and another plastic baggie with a couple of pink pills labelled "Be White!" But the one that caught my eye was the pair of blue-and-white pills labelled "Mr. McSweeney's Protestant Pills." I briefly considered buying them and sending them to The Representative, but was discouraged by the $5 pricetag. I mean, maybe he doesn't even want to be Protestant. -- M. - - - - From: "kathleen Senf"
Dear McSweeney's, I was reading some of the other letters about playground chants, and I
have
a request. It is not so much a chant as it is a song, but does anyone
know
all the words to the little ditty that contains the lines:
I know it's an odd song, but we used to sing it on the playground all
the
time. Those are unfortunately the only words I can remember.
I don't think the song ever made it out west, because no one out here
in
Alberta, where I currently live, has ever heard of the song.
It's not a matter of life or death. It's just one of those things that
drives you nuts when you're trying to remember the words.
- - - - Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, The following is a list of 12 things (slightly annotated) I have written within the blank margins on the back of one, five, and ten dollar bills and distributed, through the purchase of goods and services, at many locations in the New York metropolitan area over the past several weeks. - If you are not afraid you do not understand.
Some of these seem awfully sad, but do not worry, I am not sad. Regards, Joe Schumacher
- - - - Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Here's what happens when the phone lines get crossed between the legal advice clinic and the humor magazine at a Canadian university. [RING]
[THREE MINUTES ELAPSE]
[RING]
Me: "Elvis Sightings Hotline-the King is out there."
[TWENTY MINUTES OF ONE-SIDED AND SLIGHTLY PANICKED DIALOGUE EXCISED FOR
THE SAKE OF BREVITY. BASICALLY, THIS WOMAN THINKS HER EMPLOYER IS GOING
TO HAVE HER ARRESTED OR FIRED FOR STEALING THINGS HER EMPLOYER'S SON IS
POSSIBLY PURLOINING FROM HIS MOTHER, THE EMPLOYER. THE WOMAN IS ADAMANT
THAT SHE DID NOT STEAL ANYTHING. ALSO, I AM NOT ABLE TO GET A WORD IN
EDGEWISE.]
...so, what am I going to do?
[FIFTEEN MINUTES ELAPSE]
[RING]
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