tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62315760335504129782024-02-07T20:10:06.683-07:00Going Postal With Mitch InkleyAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-67097577171627872542014-05-07T17:00:00.001-06:002014-05-07T17:00:22.922-06:00Boiled Frogs, Brownies of Poo, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Spiderman 2<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0YNFPH964I4nkhiv0zZiEt3_Mtex5-4d2Xe-pp03lZdcxxBNxQS47_73ztqhdzrpXWngU4BWqLELmgOAQREo0GRtEndcCrXDQYFNSHlcKp5hdSh8d405lQxLsdS9f1Itb5K9qqz_gEYy4/s1600/the-grand-budapest-hotel-international-trailer-0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0YNFPH964I4nkhiv0zZiEt3_Mtex5-4d2Xe-pp03lZdcxxBNxQS47_73ztqhdzrpXWngU4BWqLELmgOAQREo0GRtEndcCrXDQYFNSHlcKp5hdSh8d405lQxLsdS9f1Itb5K9qqz_gEYy4/s1600/the-grand-budapest-hotel-international-trailer-0.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Somehow, a couple of
stories from Sunday school actually stuck with me. One is the completely false
example of the frog in boiling water. Supposedly a frog placed in boiling water
will immediately jump out, but the frog placed in cool water will stay put even
as the temperature rises to the killing degree. The point is that somebody does
not become evil or morally corrupt all at once, but over time. It was a warning
to be on guard. The story is false. The only way to make sure the damn
amphibian stays is to hold the lid in place and listen to the pinging sounds as
it jumps into the roof of its increasingly uncomfortable prison. Besides, who
boils frogs? Frog legs yes, but entire frogs? The lesson should go: if you toss
a frog into boiling water it will jump out, but if you chop off his legs he
won’t ever jump again. Stick that in a fortune cookie and eat it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
there was the poo brownies. This was employed to teach youngsters to be careful
about their media intake. The teacher would go on for a bit about the most
delicious brownies ever made. The more ambitious teacher might even have
brought a pan of homemade brownies with them. Just as you swallowed the first
bite the teacher would casually mention that a very small portion of excrement
had been introduced into the batter prior to baking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
may think it is ok to watch a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>
fantastic movie, even if it only has one or two small bad parts,” they would
say, “but that is like saying that it is ok to eat poop, if it is part of a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really </i>fantastic pan of brownies.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
get the idea. A spoonful of crap can really ruin a batch of brownies (Go ahead
and stick that in a fortune cookie as well). On the other hand, a single spoonful
in a large enough batch might have little to no effect on taste. One also
should consider the type of poop. Is it canine waste? Or perhaps civet crap,
from which they make coffee for elitists? Or even bat guano, which rumor holds
as an ingredient for some snack foods and salad garnishes? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last
week I consumed allegorical crap in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really
</i>fantastic batch of hypothetical brownies (I really should work at a fortune
cookie plant). I went and saw The Grand Budapest Hotel. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Add three cups of
extremely talented actors, including Edward Norton, William Dafoe, Jude Law, Bill
Murray, Adrian Brody, Jason Schwartzman, Jeff Goldblum, and Ralph Fiennes. Mix
in a brilliant script by the director/cook, Wes Anderson. Then add a scoop of
bat shit in the form of cuss words, sprinkle in a pinch of excreted 80+ year
old nude ladies (or should I say pinch in a sprinkle?).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pull the confection out
of the oven and you have a delicious, quirky and absolutely hilarious pan of
brownies. The quality and humor is only complimented by the occasional
crassness and even as you consume waste you know it just wouldn’t be the same
without it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ralph Fiennes was the
real surprise for me, but now I wonder who else could stand over the corpse of
his 85 year old lover and say, “…You're looking so well darling, you really
are. I don't know what sort of cream they put on you down at the morgue, but I
want some…” with such a perfect, charming, strait faced delivery?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For me the Grand Budapest
was Wes Anderson’s best to date. It had the quirky humor but was this time
accompanied by a cohesive plot and the result was a 5 star gourmet brownie.
Turn the temperature up, cut off my legs if you like, but I will definitely stay,
like a good frog, to be boiled alive for this flick. Go see it if you can
stomach some richly flavored, chocolate accompanied feces.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Spiderman 2 comes with
little to no crap. I would not call it a gourmet brownie, more like an
expertly<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>cooked box brownie. They were
heavy handed with their theme, which is an attraction for me. I don’t want to
be preached at, but I like a point to be made. Sneering elitist critics
probably regurgitated their civet coffee in their mouths and swallowed the
acidic mixture back down when they found out it was a movie with hope as its theme.
“How very cliché,” they likely said, “how quaint. Hope is a thing for the
common man. I read the New Yorker and believe in the hopelessness of the human
condition.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Personally I can not
think of a better subject then hope for any movie. Us’n regular folk who work
for a living and let our kids play on the McDonalds playground (insert gasp
here) try to cling to hope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did the movie follow a formula? Yes. I am ok
with that. A celebrated cook might make brownies from scratch without the aid
of measuring cups and spoons, but the rest of us (when not shaking the mixture
from a box) follow a formula. Why? Because it works, and it works well.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The chemistry between
Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone was fantastic and believable and the movie was
all about relationships. Setting aside Gwen and Peter, both of the bad guys
were upset about relationships turned sour, or the complete lack of
relationship, and that was in large part their motivation for trying to off
Spidey. The movie was in turns sweet, captivating, and heartbreaking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Were there a few plot
holes and feats that defied believability? Uh, yeah. It is a super hero movie
about a man who climbs walls and swings around New York on giant spider webs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course it helps that
I went to this one with my four year old son who threw a tantrum last Christmas
because the Spiderman socks that he got in his stocking did not give him the
ability to climb walls. He was impressed, to say the least, and so was I. It’ll
have a place on my shelf when it comes out on DVD.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I guess what I’m really
saying here is a little bit of crap can make brownies a delicacy as long as
they don’t pile it in (I am looking at you, Game of Thrones creators), and I’m
also saying that I can enjoy boxed brownies (will in fact choose them 9 out of
10 times).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-7324813401066974332013-01-08T20:40:00.000-07:002013-01-08T20:40:05.593-07:00A letter from Santa to Rocky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-71031362809990367132012-02-02T07:27:00.000-07:002012-02-02T08:41:52.590-07:00Snow Painting<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Story for the Snow Blogfest Hosted by Roh Morgan: Snow Painting</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Thick fuzz coated John’s teeth and his breath tasted like he ate a hot pocket and a tub of stale pretzels the night before. He glimpsed the kitchen’s TV as he staggered to the bathroom. Fanatics waved signs and shouted end of days predictions. December 21 and John wondered if they were let down when they woke up to a still spinning world this morning. He supposed they’d say the day was not spent yet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He passed the studio door and stopped to look at last night’s work. A bright array of reds and oranges covered the canvas in a sweeping arc. He listened. He knew true art would speak for itself. Nothing. He tried to ignore the letdown. An artist did not give up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">John knew he could paint. He’d done it before—really done it. Before, he’d paid the bills painting copies, but one night something special happened. That night he woke up all at once, not gradually, but instantly and completely. His fingers itched and his mind hopped along, from image to image in an art gallery he hadn’t yet created. He climbed from bed, careful not to disturb Becca, though he wanted to share his excitement with her. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">John put on headphones, turned up what Becca called his angry music. The colors seemed to mix themselves. His hands seemed to move of their own volition. He wondered if religious fanatics felt this way. The whole time he imagined Becca’s face when she saw it. It was a trance, a trip, and he finished in a daze. That painting had not spoken, but sung. It sung and he waited for Becca to wake up. Never before had he felt such a high. He lay back on his chair, covered in paint, and heard a crash from behind. Becca walked past him, staring at the painting, a shattered cup in pieces on the floor as coffee soaked into the carpet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That painting sold at auction for a cool hundred grand. The paper’s art review, written by none other than Barty Winchester, had praised the piece: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Compelled by the pulsating beat of the beautiful, wondrous, and horrific relentlessly butting clandescent heads, the work creates compositions of breathing life-like accumulation.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A meager budget gave John a year and a half to try and do it again, but nothing sang. Though a few had whispered to him, had sold for a pittance to local hotels. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This new painting remained silent. He imagined Mr. Winchesters evaluation: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Nothing but so much dross, a wasted stretch of depressed canvas, yearning like the duck to be a swan but brutally dispatched before the flowering of maturity. They say great artists sell their souls, but this painter unfortunately sold his talent.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He closed the studio door and sighed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">If only he had more time. Between a rotating shift at the hospital and his family, time to paint was rare. Last night his wife, Becca, wanted to watch a movie. As if he had time for movies or reality TV. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“How much time do just you and I have, John?” she’d asked him, “Let’s do something—play a game or watch a movie, I don’t know.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I have to paint. I haven’t painted anything for a month. I can’t be a painter if I don’t paint.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Not a new conversation. John knew he shouldn’t blame her. In truth John spent more time finding animal shapes in the studio’s ceiling texture than painting. He knew writers could get blocked, but hadn’t considered it could ever happen to him. He needed routine. Sometimes it seemed like Becca resisted whenever he wanted to spend more time is the studio. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“You go back on shift tomorrow and we hardly see each other. I thought we could have some you and me time.” She smiled at him, laid a hand on his arm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Why is it that you won’t let me work, Becca? You don’t think I can do it? You said you’d support my dreams.” Using such cliché words and it made him angry. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“You had two hours to paint earlier and you played Mario Kart instead. You’re always doing that. I told you to go paint.” She was right, damn.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She watched TV while he stewed at a blank canvas. Finally he forced himself to do something.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Not a very good something apparently.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">John stumbled onward to the bathroom. Locked. Damn. He could hear the shower. Why did she have to lock the door? He went back to the bedroom, put on slippers and robe, went out back. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It hurt to breathe the bitter cold air. New snow blanketed the yard. The breeze made the light crystalline snow swirl around his calves. John pulled down his boxer shorts and a yellow arch steamed in the frigid air. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He sighed, shivered. The stream shivered too, painting the white snow with yellow dots.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Sirens whooped in the distance, someone screamed. John looked skyward and forgot all about the pee shivers. The chill grey world made a horrible, stark contrast to the fiery red streak in the sky. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If a Balrog mated then that might be what his sperm looked like</i>. Some part of John’s mind recognized the comet for what it was, but the rest remained dumbfounded. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Talking paintings suddenly seemed ridiculous. He’d imagined dying young, dreams unfulfilled but those thoughts did not reoccur. Only Becca. He pulled up his boxer shorts and looked down at his best, most important artwork. Barty Winchester’s voice narrated evaluation:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The canvas of fresh snow clashes wonderfully with streaks and splashing puddles of dank yellow simultaneously bringing to mind the florescent dinginess of a public restroom and the frailty of mankind. But what gives it that certain beat, that visual rhythm, are the scattered droplets caused by the pee shivers, acknowledging the savage garden that is life, the randomness of existence. And the perfect offset to natural beauty? The slipper print marring the biggest yellow splotch, saying, “I am man, behold my print,” even while the work’s admirer knows print and painting will eventually melt, causing the overall reaction and inward reflection: what is really important?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It spoke to John, it yelled at John, screamed her name. He ran into the house and one slipper left yellow-wet prints on the kitchen linoleum. He faced death but didn’t think of silent artwork. He remembered the first time he’d seen Becca in the library. He remembered her smile when he proposed. John found her dressing in the bedroom and kissed her. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I kinda like you, lady,” he said, “and I’m sorry I blamed my silent paintings on you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She laughed, “I know you’re stressed, John. Don’t worry so much. I’ll always talk back to you,” and she punched his arm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Later in the afternoon John and Becca watched an American warhead collide with the comet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Silly Aztecs.” John said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“The Mayan’s, hun.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Oh yeah.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They turned to go back inside. Becca took his arm and kissed his cheek, “I can clean up. Maybe you should go paint,” she said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Maybe I should just hang out with you. I’ll paint when he goes down for bed.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">John led Becca inside. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After December 21, 2012 John thought of Becca, his paintings spoke, sang, and worshipped Becca, and although he never knew it, Barty Winchester repeatedly praised her in the art column.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-66083050581868359762012-01-24T09:55:00.000-07:002012-01-24T09:55:30.156-07:00My Legal Will<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix"><div>Death is no respecter of age, therefore I write this will on this the first day of March, 2010, in the twenty fourth year of my life. <br />
<br />
The first orders of business are, of course, the funeral arrangements. I trust that these details will be followed meticulously by loved ones left behind. <br />
<br />
To start with I would like to address my post life wardrobe. It is my wish to enter the incinerator wearing a white smock with a hole sewed in the middle to properly display my Tom Selleck tattoo with its nipple to nipple long mustache. <br />
<br />
Secondly I want a man of African descent, preferably one who spent his childhood in the broncs, to do my hair and touch up prior to both the viewing and the incineration. I request this not as an advocate of equality, but because I want my limbs arranged in a particular gang sign which will be revealed to him via a sealed envelope. <br />
<br />
Thirdly are the floral arrangements, if they can be called “floral.” I would like dried mangos to be scattered all over my body like falling rose petals, and around my neck shall be placed a garland of green tinted, under ripe bananas. This arrangement will be carried out for both the viewing and the incineration. I would like this task to be performed by some local orphans. <br />
<br />
Number four; as indicated above I would like to be incinerated, body, fruit, tattoo, smock, and all. The only exemption will be my thumbs and my tongue, for reasons that will be revealed shortly. The following instruction is to be kept strictly confidential: I would like my dear sweet wife, AnneMarie, to secret my ashes into the funeral parlor and use them to fill the salt and pepper shakers of said house of death. This will be done in order to ensure that all attendees leave with a bit of me to take home with them. And as an added bonus, by virtue of the fruit content of my ashes, all will be cured of the constipation caused by the chili and funeral potatoes that will be served. <br />
<br />
I believe that concludes the funeral arrangements, which leaves the accounting and distribution of all I possess to be dealt with. <br />
<br />
First and foremost I would like to leave my inability to grow a decent mustache to Shad Seitz, who is ahead in that department. <br />
<br />
Second is my sense of accomplishment. This I would like to leave to my dear cousin, Shane Tye, who, to my knowledge, has accomplished nothing. <br />
<br />
Third and fourth are my senses of humor and direction which go to Christopher Tye, that he may laugh when he can’t find his way. <br />
<br />
Fifth item shall be my utter sense of serenity and calm while in traffic. This I leave to my Uncle Mark, who needs it badly. <br />
<br />
Number six: I leave my ability to count to Matthew Glaittli. <br />
<br />
Tenth item is my conscience. I would like to leave this encumbrance, this tie to reality to Rachel Inkley, so that she can have a bit more room to breathe… <br />
<br />
To Jeffrey Maw I leave the seventh item; my thumbs. What greater gift than an extra thumb for each hand? If our single set of thumbs set us apart from the lower life forms, than surely this act will set Jeff above all living, earth bound creatures. <br />
<br />
Eighteen: I leave my tongue to Elizabeth Glaittli, so that she can say something that is not a movie line. <br />
<br />
Last, but certainly not least I leave my children to my loving, beautiful wife Anne, to love, support, and pay for, without my help. Good luck and sorry babe. This is my last will and testament. Remember, I live on in you. Literally. <br />
<br />
Mitchell Inkley </div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-31397973609737884912012-01-21T16:02:00.000-07:002012-01-21T16:04:50.255-07:00Rejection by PostThe reason for naming this blog the way I did was two fold (discounting the not so clever pun). Firstly I wanted a place to post the letters I write when I feel uninspired. I write letters when I'm uninspired and stories when I am (thus conveniently providing an excuse when the letters are sub par). So I write these letters and I put them in the post when possible. Obviously there was nowhere to send Audrey Hepburn's letter. I sent the letter to the Pope to the Pope. On the envelope I wrote: <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">The pope </div><div style="text-align: center;">The Vatican</div><div style="text-align: center;">(In the midst of Rome)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I covered the entire thing in stamps. He never wrote back. I sent the one to Gandolf and wrote The White Havens for the address. Anyway, that is the first reason for naming my blog thus.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Secondly, which is to say first and foremost (figure that one out!), this is the blog by and about a writer who wants to do what he loves professionally and one who apparently refers to himself in the third person. One bain of aspiring writers are rejection letters received by post. At first they were all form letters. Then about the time I had to trade a paper clip for one of those big black paper clamps to keep them all together I got my first personalized rejection. A meager helping of acceptance has given me hope but the rejections keep coming and I've had four or five personalized No's. These personalized rejections are actually better because they are from quality magazines whereas the acceptance has come from a more local source. Anyway, some of the rejections were amusing and so I will post them here.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The first personalized rejection was for the Pope Letter:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Well Sir,</div><div style="text-align: center;">I've seen the application--and it says you have to have produced</div><div style="text-align: center;">at least <u>three</u> <u>provable</u> <u>miracles</u>. (I don't think financially bailing out this </div><div style="text-align: center;">magazine counts, though I'll testify if you give it a try.)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Another one was for a story called "Porcelain Hope":</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'll give you credit for this: After seventeen years</div><div style="text-align: center;">as an editor, this is my first talking urinal story. </div><div style="text-align: center;">(If only Hal had been so helpful to Dave in "2001: A Space Odyssey".)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">For the same tale:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">While I appreciate the story's sentiment,</div><div style="text-align: center;">I just don't feel the whole bathroom/talking urinal</div><div style="text-align: center;">thing is right for my magazine.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Another for the same:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">The talking urinal did pull a smile out of me.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The few others I've had were more technical and less amusing so I'll keep them to myself. My rejection letter stack has not grown at the same alarming rate it used to. Were it that it was due to some acceptance, but alas, tis due to my own laziness. So, a goal. You will see more of these this year, personalized and posted.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-39013189711392911162012-01-03T11:11:00.000-07:002012-01-03T11:11:01.021-07:00CD's and VinylMy wife and I were both raised by construction working fathers. We were discussing nostalgic things the other day and I struggled to say what I wanted just the right way and then she said it for me. She said, "There is nothing like the taste of saw dust in soda." Sometimes I think she ought to be the writer. Nostalgia always hits accompanied by a feeling of loss, something that can not be reclamed. In this case childhood. You can work in the garage and drink saw dusty Dr. Pepper, but that doesn't bring back carefree days.<br />
<br />
One thing that I miss are CD's. Yes, even with the convenience of my whole catilogue at my fingertips via iPod, I miss purchasing, unpackaging, and admiring a new CD. <br />
<br />
My first CD (not counting Anamaniacs) was Hotel California. Owning the disc meant there were nine fewer songs I needed to request on 103.5, nine fewer songs to wait for with my index finger hoovering over the record button for my mix tape, and nine fewer songs that had some off-key DJ singing the last line. That fist CD was beautiful, they all were. <br />
<br />
I remember browsing in Greywhale, waiting for the perfect album to jump out. I could always tell. It spoke to me. I held it again in the car, the plastic bag I'd carried it from the store in discarded on the passenger seat. There was something satisfying about picking off the plastic wrapping and struggling with those super adhesive stickers on either edge. The CD would stay unmolested in its case while I read the booklet front to back. Only then would I put it in the player. <br />
<br />
When there were only CD's the order of the tracks and the mood presented by each one was important for a perfect record. <br />
<br />
Then burned CD's became big, none of us realizing what we were losing. I remember being jarred when an odd song would play after a remembered favorite. It sucked to have <em>Misery</em> off the Beatles' <em>Please Please Me</em> end, to already be geared to sing along with <em>Anna (Go To Him)</em>, and be rudely interupted by Abba or something.<br />
<br />
By the time I realized something was lost it was too late (not that I could have done anything anyway). It hit home one day while I hung out with a cousin. We all had our own huge car case to keep the discs in one spot. It was sad to see ugly gray discs outnumbering the glossy albums. Then my cousin pulled all of his empty cases off a shelf and threw them all in a garbage bag. He pulled the sleeves from in front of the discs in his giant case and threw those away too. I panicked and was never able to do that myself. I'm still a bit mad about it when I remember. <br />
<br />
Things got a bit better with the iPod. I mean the cover image would pull up with the song. But that's like drinking saw dust infested soda. It does not revive the art of the album. How many times did I buy a CD for one song and only a few days later that song was my least favorite? It was the best way to discover new music. <br />
<br />
I'll never get my childhood back, or CD's, but I found something better. I'm obsessed with vinyl. I went into Greywhale on a limb and came out with Mumford and Son's <em>Sigh No More</em> on Vinyl! I had the same feeling of long ago, but with more class. I bought a record player from the DI, rebuilt it, and was set. Now I have everything from The Wing's <em>Band on the Run </em>to Johnny Mathis' <em>Greatest Hits </em>to The National's <em>High Violet.</em>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-81414994331544117822011-12-11T08:44:00.000-07:002011-12-11T08:45:54.046-07:00A letter to Gandolf<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">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: <a href="http://hbcdelivers.s439.sureserver.com/help-ive-been-offended">http://hbcdelivers.s439.sureserver.com/help-ive-been-offended</a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Dear Gandolf,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Your friend in need, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Mitchell Inkley</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-72373572421989111312011-11-27T14:35:00.000-07:002011-11-27T14:35:01.606-07:00Capitolist Pig<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I bought a scooter once. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>like a boat and rumbling enough so that a lesser man would be rendered infertile by daring to straddle the beast is awfully impertinent. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Now I can drive this on the sidewalk right?” she asked me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told her she needed a license, which she didn’t have. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD428DjHFSKiA8rOfMCY0KeIeJb83PvLxm09KEV8Oeo3gfYd4X3hFaBsyDkcN1qbWCkMT4g2O0TzSZNAs6PBi2v-a3nlJj9M8sEK9pdP47aIYFeKOGn4lWE6AWRb_ll0ZWULakeBev5Sh6/s1600/8727_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD428DjHFSKiA8rOfMCY0KeIeJb83PvLxm09KEV8Oeo3gfYd4X3hFaBsyDkcN1qbWCkMT4g2O0TzSZNAs6PBi2v-a3nlJj9M8sEK9pdP47aIYFeKOGn4lWE6AWRb_ll0ZWULakeBev5Sh6/s320/8727_2.jpg" width="233" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had a fish tank once.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I rescued a dog once.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My uncle found a dog once.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog—well hopefully he found a patient owner who did not mind the smell of piss. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-78373421308637173082011-11-04T18:21:00.000-06:002011-11-04T18:25:16.432-06:00A Letter to Audrey<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Dear Audrey Hepburn,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yours in love,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Mitchell Inkley <br />
<br />
<br />
Disclaimer: <br />
<br />
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.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-27529613918940116972011-10-28T14:37:00.000-06:002011-10-28T14:37:00.914-06:00A Letter to the Pope<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Most Holy Father,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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... </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You're Brother in the Faith, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Saint Mitchell David Inkley</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231576033550412978.post-26774754321627374992011-10-24T23:51:00.001-06:002011-10-24T23:51:49.474-06:00A Letter to Tom Selleck's Mustache<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Dear Tom Selleck’s Mustache,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So for convenience sake I shall refer to you not as Tom Selleck’s mustache, but as Monty James Morehouse Jr. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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 <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Australia</place></country-region> 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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Yours truly,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">A concerned fan,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Mitchell Inkley</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">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. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07117701033407133039noreply@blogger.com0