A letter to Gandolf

Another old letter to post. The mailman must have thought I was mad when he looked at the destination but it hasn't made its way back to me so it ended somewhere. Whether in the White Havens or in the trash bin I don't know. Warning: This letter is somewhat racy. If you are easily offended stop reading immediately and click this link: http://hbcdelivers.s439.sureserver.com/help-ive-been-offended

Dear Gandolf,

            Let me begin by establishing my complete recognition of the fact that you are an entirely fictional character. You’ll find, Gandolf, that something of this nature is hardly a deterrent where I am concerned. If you can help me than this small snag in our inevitable relationship will be of no consequence. The last I heard you had set sail for the White Havens, so I am addressing this letter to you assuming that is still your residence. I do not know where that is so I hope that the postage applied will be sufficient to see this document safely into the wisest of hands- yours.

I am familiar with a few of your adventures and the role you played in them. For the most part it seems that you talk big but let other people do the work. Please take no offense, this is just my observation and I am unaware of the work you may or may not do behind the scenes. It seems that you trade in information. And it is information that I am in need of. Now, let me describe to you the nature of my problem.

            It would be counter productive to ask your help if I did not start at the beginning of my tale. I hope that despite the caliber of the experiences that are yours you can find my story of some interest. I assure you that it is completely necessary. As with a great many narratives mine begins in the bedroom, however I do not believe that my father would appreciate me giving an account of the occasion. Besides, I am sure he is the only one that could do the story justice. So we shall skip that, and my birth, and move directly to the portion of my tale that bears weight on the current situation.

            It began last month. It was innocent at first, but it has grown wildly out of my control. I am not one to wear jewelry of any kind, and maybe that is the root of my current problem, namely my ignorance on the subject of the proper way to wear these shiny accessories. Before now I was cynical when it came to the subject of dangerous jewelry. Had I been Frodo and you had told me that my ring had an evil and destructive nature and would consume my life I would have laughed at you. I would have sooner believed that my shoelaces would revolt against my tyrannical bow tying policies and strangle me in my sleep. Now, my dear wizard, you may count me as a believer. If you told me my underwear would tire of my dribbling and cut off the circulation to my legs I would strip them from my beautifully tanned and sculpted thighs and buttocks right now.

            You may rest assured of one thing; I will never buy a box of cracker jacks again. I, like Frodo, have happened upon an evil and destructive ring in the most unlikely of places. I took my prize from the box and without any thought of potential danger I slipped it onto my finger. I have used all sorts of lubricants and oils, of which I have many, but to no avail. I have been to countless jewel smiths, but they, like me, are unable to get the damn thing off of my finger. I write to you Gandolf in all urgency. One of the fingers that I am now typing with has turned a nasty shade of purple and because of the swelling I often press several keys instead of just the desired one. Help me please! I beg an urgent response if not your personal appearance.

Your friend in need,

Mitchell Inkley

Capitolist Pig

I bought a scooter once.

When one motorcyclist sees another he does this kind of underhanded wave with a nod. There is an unspoken set of rules and one of these rules is if you are riding a 150 cc scooter you may return a wave to one of the big mustache bearing pig riders who condescends to acknowledge you. On the other hand, to initiate the exchange while riding something that sounds like a blender and feels like maybe your phone is vibrating instead of sounding  like a boat and rumbling enough so that a lesser man would be rendered infertile by daring to straddle the beast is awfully impertinent.

So I put the scooter up for sale on KSL. Someone whose life ambition is to emulate John Wayne should have more sense (Although the picture posted below made me feel a bit better).

The scooter proved to be a tough sale. Tough enough that I began to lose hope until one day a woman called. She showed up with two hundred dollars less than I was asking for the bike, but as I said, I was desperate. Her teeth were brown and her breath reeked of ramen noodles. One eye looked at my shoes and the other strayed between my hairline and my left shoulder. She may have been tweeking. I’m not sure on that score.

“Now I can drive this on the sidewalk right?” she asked me.

I told her she needed a license, which she didn’t have.

In the end I sold her the scooter and she probably died on the way home. But my wallet was fat. I like to think I helped nature weed out the sickly gazelle that day. If that makes me a capitalist pig then I am Nature’s capitalist pig.

I had a fish tank once.

Let me just say that I actually like fish, and enjoyed them while I had them, but then I had a baby and the fish had to go. There just wasn’t enough room.  Back to KSL. I put the fish and tank up for far less than I had put into it all and I had a buyer within the hour.

When he came I offered to flush the fish to make transporting the tank easier the guy looked at me like I had slaughtered a baby seal right there in the parkinglot. So we bagged the fish and off he went. Would I have killed all those fish for thirty dollars? Apparently so. It’s the circle of life. Those fish had devoured the guppies I bought at first. Once again, Nature’s Pig.

I rescued a dog once.

I recognized the danger of buying the dog that pissed itself when I reached to pet it, but my best friend had fallen in love so home it came. It was a dog rescued from California. Did I drill the saleslady about the idiocy of spending Utah tax dollars to save California’s pest problem? Yes.  Did I lie on the humane society’s aptitude questionnaire? I guess that depends on perspective. I passed and I’m no humanitarian so I’d have to say yes.

I yelled at the dog once and it hid under the bed all day. It must have been beaten. I peed all over the place. Hello KSL.

My uncle found a dog once.

He is a capitalist with a nice streak I guess because he drove it down to the Humane Society. The lady told him that would be twenty bucks for the drop off. He said, “Like hell.” And tied it up outside.

In my defense I did not ever sell a dead bird to a blind kid. The tweeker bought the bike of her own volition and I asked the tank buyer before flushing the fish.  The dog—well hopefully he found a patient owner who did not mind the smell of piss.

A note to my one and only follower who I believe to be Tegan (a real humanitarian whom I admire): Most of the above is sarcasm. The fish? Yeah a bit heartless. The dog? It needed someone with more patience and time. I have had animals I’ve loved and kept.

A Letter to Audrey

Dear Audrey Hepburn,

           

            I write to you as a devoted fan and admirer. That you are among the deceased does not bother me. And because of your death and the physical toll that it had doubtless taken on you I will not be disappointed without an immediate response. I have always enjoyed your many films, many of which are considered classics. Let me assure you that all of your films have a special place in my heart. This letter was inspired by your life’s story which I recently read on Wikipedia. You were and are a wonderful person both on the screen and off. You had few flaws that I am aware of. The biggest was a constant struggle with anorexia, which I seriously doubt is a problem anymore because I have been told that the dead do not eat anyway.

            My dearest Audrey, let me get right to the point. In the course of studying your life and watching your films I have found myself falling desperately in love with you. I feel that I can not possibly live without you! I understand that you are both old and that you no longer draw breath. I assure you that these small scruples do not bother me. In fact I am into old dead women. Please respond at the soonest convenience so that we may arrange a meeting.

            Yours in love,

                        Mitchell Inkley


Disclaimer: 

This letter was written before my marriage. Although I still appreciate Ms. Hepburn I have found love among the living. I remain devoted to my wife, Anne.

A Letter to the Pope

Most Holy Father,

Due to recent events concerning things of a spiritual nature I write to you first hand. For months now I have searched the internet for an application for Sainthood. I realize that two miracles are needed and that they must posthumous, and while I am obviously still among the living we both know, Father, that rules can be bent if not broken. At any rate I failed to locate a written application and so in an effort to present my case first hand, I have decided to write you and give a personal account of the most spiritual dining experience since the famed supper of long ago. That was a famous last, this, I pray, will be the first of many. It just so happens that I am the lucky, or more properly, the blest and chosen vessel to be the recipient of this most magnificent experience.

Interestingly enough, there were thirteen of us gathered in that small section of Chuck-A-Rama, a local buffet here in Utah. A family of Mexicans, an Asian couple, and I sat at our respective tables. I had just returned to the table with a large plate of instant potatoes, smothered in fake beef gravy, and sat there struggling to decide where I could safely scoop a mouthful without disturbing the lake of processed lard. The steam wafted up and the delicious aroma enveloped me. I sat and soaked it up, breathing deeply. I chose to begin on the east side of my plate where the side of my potatoes sloped gently downwards. Cutting vertically into the miniscule hill I created a cliff of sorts, which to my relief stood up to the pressure spectacularly. I dipped my spoonful of mashed spud into the lake, and put the whole thing into my mouth. I pulled the spoon gently and caught every morsel of food as the utensil slid smoothly through the moist pink surface of my lips. I let the food linger on my tongue until I could no longer help myself, letting the flavor soak into my taste buds. I swallowed the mush and sat back in my chair basking in the memory of the first bite, for it is always the best. Every particle of this God sent manna had its part in the play of flavor that was performed on my tongue that night. Ecstatic delight coursed through my body in a fury of pure unadulterated euphoria, after cascading over my contented taste buds.

This is a spiritual awakening of sorts, a sensualist's pleasure. This experience, however, had it stopped there, would not be worthy of sainthood as it is a common occurrence for those of us who are frequent diners of the above named buffet. The thing that is the subject matter of this letter, dear Pope, happened just after I swallowed my first bite.

I glanced toward the Asian couple and saw that the younger of the two, a male, had shaped from his lump of potatoes, the form of a dragon, much to the annoyance of his female companion. This scene captivated me. I looked from the magnificent dragon to my pitiful lake and back again. I picked up my plate and tipping it, emptied the gravy into my Dr. Pepper.

Looking at my potatoes anybody else would probably have seen nothing but a plate of half eaten food. My eyes, however, beheld something that could change the course of my life forever. It was hazy. What was it? I was not yet sure. But my hands suddenly were not my own but that of a divine artist. They moved, it seemed, of their own volition. All thoughts of what was sanitary and polite had left my mind. I dipped my hands into the mass, and with flurried but sure movements my potatoes began to take on the form of a human being. I paused only to take a drink of my soda, and in my zealous frenzy of intense work I did not even notice that the beverage was infused with processed gravy. The figure, it seemed, was a woman, with luscious long hair flowing down her back and onto my dinner plate. But she was faceless. Who was this woman? I did not know. I sat back again and observed the fruits of my heavenly guided labor, frustrated at my sudden inability to finish what was sure to be the pinnacle of my creative career. The faceless woman...

Suddenly one of the Latino children scooted his chair back. Likely in a rush to get back to the buffet line. He tripped the waiter, who fell, tossing an armload of used dishes toward the ceiling. The plates soared through the air and with a crash they smashed to the floor. White glass flew in all directions and fell to the earth like unnaturally heavy flakes of snow. Bits of food, dessert sauces, and candy sprinkles splattered all over everything in our section of the restaurant. I wiped the assortment of food out of my eyes and saw that the entire Mexican family was on their knees in an attitude of prayer looking past me. I turned and to my amazement found myself gazing into the eyes of my lady. Miraculously the bits of leftover food had formed the face that I could not. She looked up at me until I likewise dropped to my knees, then she smiled graciously down upon me. Mother Mary. The Holy Virgin.

The entire staff and the rest of the people dining that night were converted, the wayward, the unbelieving, the lost, and the pagans alike. The fervor swept the valley, mothers prayed in the streets and grown men cried. The statue of Mary stood as tribute until an innocently careless employee turned the temperature too high and melted the Holy Mother, but she lives on in the hearts of those fortunate enough to have seen the miracle that my hands wrought in the service of the Roman Catholic Church. There are still relics from the experience that survive to this day. As is the case with most appearances of the Holy Mother, my statue began to weep at one point during a most spiritual discourse by the newly converted Asian man whose name was Kim. At first his wife, Lucy, caught the tears in a disposable cup but then Veronica Sanchez, the mother of the Mexican family, took up her napkin and reverently wiped away the tears. You should have beheld our joy and astonishment when the image of Mary had been transposed to the frail paper. We call them respectively the Holy Dixie Grail and Veronica's Napkin. As of yet the Grail has no magical value that we are yet aware of, but the manager is giving away meal vouchers to those who drink from it.

I feel I need to make it clear that I do not desire to be recognized as a Saint for personal glory. I wish all to know of this miracle. I want and welcome anyone wishing to make a pilgrimage to Utah and partake of the blessed instant mashed potatoes that are endlessly served at your nearest Chuck-A-Rama location to do so. "The choice is yours at Chuck-a-Rama." My dear pope, I am sure that I do not need to remind you of Saint Juan Diego, who got sainted for seeing the Mother Mary appear as an Indian woman. You believed his story despite a lack of historical documentation. Believe my account. It is well documented. Take the word of those recently converted. I am sure you will see things my way. I insist that you visit Utah, nay I demand it. It is your responsibility. I demand Sainthood. Rash you say? It is out of concern for the other believers in what has locally been dubbed as the Mashed Mary Revival. I have told them that I remain loyal to the Vatican, but more and more they look to me as a leader. I feel that I either must find sanction in the Church through Sainthood, or must take my flock and follow a different course. So I write this letter and beg you to make a trip to Utah lest you have yet another protestant rebellion on your hands. God speed dear Pope.

You're Brother in the Faith,

Saint Mitchell David Inkley

A Letter to Tom Selleck's Mustache

Dear Tom Selleck’s Mustache,

            I address you as such because I am not sure if you answer to a name of your own. This being the case I pray that you are not opposed to my giving you a name for the sole sake of convenience.

A mustache so widely recognized and critically acclaimed such as yourself can not, of course, be given just any title. It must call to the mind of the speaker a certain level of unequalled grace as it rolls off of the tongue and pierces with startling clarity the atmosphere into which it is spoken. It can not be one name but must be three. One name must never be uttered without the companionship of its mates, unless it is a close friend that addresses you.

I recognize that you may already have a name. But as a believer in the power of faith I know that if my own moral compass points steadily to Spiritual North than the name that I choose will be the same as the one already given you. The name that I hear floating on the wind and whispering through the leaves and that is muttering gently to my heart is Monty James Morehouse Jr.  So for convenience sake I shall refer to you not as Tom Selleck’s mustache, but as Monty James Morehouse Jr.

I have often found myself with one thing on my mind as I struggle through the monotony of life. It is the upper lip upon which you rest, dear friend. I can tell you, assuming you have the decency to keep an attitude of discretion, that the thought of you, unchanging and steady, has helped me through the rough times, has buoyed me up in times of sorrow, and sustained me in my brief spurts of anguish.

A specimen of facial hair so magnificent as yourself surely has a mind of its own that thinks and makes decisions upon which it act—whether the man which you are attached to considers the course of action wise or not. This is what has occupied my mind of late and left an air of distracted unease upon my soul.

I honor the man upon whose face you rest and dearest Monty (I shall assume I am entitled to call you Monty) and I revere you as a hallmark of my generation as well as that of my parents generation. The thought that you may have unsettled differences with your… well, your father… is greatly disturbing. Many a small and seemingly harmless dispute has grown unexpectedly and caused rifts too great to overcome, hurt feelings that cannot be repaired, and permanently ruptured relationships between loved ones. The thought that this may be your fate tears at my heart. You see Mr. Morehouse, rumors have filtered through our society only to fall on my sensitive ears. Rumors that there may be discontentment in your associations with Tom. This can not be! The rumors I have heard are concerned chiefly with Mr. Selleck’s affiliation with the NRA. I have heard that not only do you not support Tom in this cause, but that you agree with Rosie O’Donnell, who has argued this point with Tom in the past. I saw Tom on The View and to my horror it seemed that my fears were confirmed on this point. You chose not to accompany the man you helped see through hard times in Australia and the American West to a petty television interview. Instead Tom had to wear a beard that does not even deserve one name much less three.

I do not blame you or Mr. Selleck but beg you both to consider reconciliation if you haven’t already. Maybe I am jumping to conclusions. I hope I am. I love you both in a manner that is not shunned by society and hope that you can heed my council. If you can not work out your differences by yourselves than perhaps you need professional help.

Yours truly,

A concerned fan,

Mitchell Inkley

P.S. –A note to Mr. Selleck. Dear Tom, please do not be angered by the ignorance of Monty. His Marxist views are doubtless a result of a lack of education. Be patient. Do not give up on him. Never abandon him. For your sake, for my sake, for the sake of mankind, Please.