Dear The Cape Rock

Hopefully Fake Letter to the Editor sent by July 21 on Thursday, February 27, 2003

from the rebel-without-an-attention-span dept.

Dear The Cape Rock,

As a small mammal roughly the size of a door hinge, I am writing to complain about the surprising amount of it being bandied about by the jet-set. Why, they truly seem as if they own the night or something! Well, being the tax-paying and law-abiding nuclear fission reactor that I am, I intend to wait for this year's crop to be dusted in it's own time, Kent.

Although, I can understand one's confusion in all of this. The cream puff dowsed in trembling hands is also the robin's left breast, I once heard the milkman scream from my grandma's room. So, what to make of the lot? I say, shoot every one of the bastards, preferably in the throat, and listen to the gurgling sound that they make as the last breath of life is awash in their mortal vitae.

But I digress. Mary Tyler Moore is the least of our concerns - she's old and her best days in the ring are behind her. Macaulay Culkin is the new safe bet, and the choice of the me generation as well. Never mind that I find eggs repulsive, or that once you've seen an episode of Mannix, you've truly been bounced off the wall more times than I care to mention.

In closing, after a warm meal and a firm calf massage, hold the pill directly between your thumb and forefinger, place them in your mouth, and swallow until your hand is completely out of sight, or the desired affect is reached. I'm sure you'll feel ten times better, and if not, woe be to you, inhuman hellspawn, for the Styx is fraught with peril, and the boatman is off somewhere making a doodie.


Harold James Messner