On knowing what's what

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Sean Hannity, host, Hannity & Colmes
Re: Mexicans

Dear Sean,

Journalistic icon Laurence Shandy here. First of all, Sean, let me register a complaint over your online dating service, Hannidate. Supposedly, Hannidate it set up to match conservatively minded singles. As you may know, I'm not as young as I used to be. I maintain a healthy lifestyle of narcotics and cosmetic surgery, but I'll be the first to admit I can't keep up with the kinky, sex-hungry groupies who writhe on the shoulders of life's highway. Every now and then, I like to pack away the butt plugs and lactation pumps and just have some old fashioned missionary fun. I joined Hannidate to meet a woman who might fulfill this need. Frankly, sir, I believe your screening process should be tweaked. Through your service, I met someone called A. Coulter. The profile seemed to fit. Pro-Bush, pro-war, pro-religion. That's an anti-kink recipe if I ever heard one. But upon our first meeting, I was shocked to discover that A. Coulter was an insectoid transvestite. Sean, if I wanted to have sex with one of those, I would have unbolted my basement door. Of course, I made love to it anyway. I am a curious man, plus I already paid my Hannidate membership fees. The beast said it knows you personally. If that's true, sir, may I suggest deleting its account before others fall into the same trap I did? Christ, man, it was like fucking a praying mantis!

But that's not why I'm writing to you today. I recently witnessed your dressing down of the entire nation of Mexico for the boos our Miss USA received at the Miss Universe pageant held south of the border. Your sniveling lesser half, Colmes, and his illegal immigrant lackey claimed the boos were all in the spirit of competition -- that Miss Mexico didn't make the cut, so the catcalls were borne out of jealousy. That's as may be, but this kind of behavior has become a pattern with the Mexicans. You were right to say we're the ones who should be upset with them over forcing us to build a fence along our border. They scurry across our deserts like scorpions, and with the money they make trimming our hedges and laying our bricks, they don't even have the decency to contribute to our economy. They send their vast fortunes back home to feed another generation of freeloaders and malcontents.

Why just the other day, I paid my Mexican housemaid Consuela four American dollars for spit-shining my Peabody awards. Honestly, I should have cut that rate in half, since the moron also polished my Polks. She is not to touch the Polks, and she knows that. Regardless, I gave her a five, for which she couldn't even make change with paper money. She had to give me back a dollar in nickels which she dug from her rancid car. Still, she could have used that five to feed the lunch machine I keep next to the trash bin out back (thus contributing to the cycle of capitalism), but she instead folded up the bill and slipped it into an envelope addressed to one of her children back in the Old Country.

Are you kidding me, Consuela? Her twelve-year-old is the only one who's literate (I know because he sent me a letter ensuring that there wasn't a history of AIDS in his family. I've learned not to take Consuela at her word.), and he's too busy at the Choco-Taco factory to check the mail. Besides, we all know the Mexican government screens all incoming mail for money. Then they use that money to pay people to cross our border, thus forcing us to build border fences composed of cheap, Mexican-made chain-link.

Their booing of our Miss USA is just a symptom of a much larger disease, Sean, and kudos for nailing the right issue here. They can claim the right to free speech all they want, but if they love free speech so much, why don't they just become Americans? We've got a lot of fence to build, and we're going to need all the help we can get.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

P.S. I just logged on to Hannidate and couldn't help noticing the featured profile, a 31-year-old youth pastor whose slogan is "Just following my leader: Sean". Shouldn't this guy's leader be Jesus? I'm not one to seek too many brains in my sex partners, but there's a limit, Sean. Weed these people out!

On softening the heart

Dear readers,

On March 6 of this year, a federal grand jury convicted former White House official Lewis "Scooter" Libby of perjury. He falsely claimed in an investigation of the Valerie Plame leak scandal that he did not reveal to the media that Mrs. Plame was an undercover C.I.A. agent. Libby's sentencing is in June. Meanwhile, Libby's attorneys asked several of his friends and supporters to write letters to Judge Reggie Walton asking for leniency in this case. Recently, the same attorneys filed to have those letters sealed from the public for fear that the contents of the letters could be used by bloggers to make fun of Libby.

I wrote one of those letters, and I am reprinting it here for two reasons. First, I cannot see how anyone could take the contents of this heartfelt plea and twist them to cast a disparaging light on Mr. Libby. Second, I hope to one day profit from the inclusion of this letter in a volume of my correspondences.


From: Laurence Shandy
To: Judge Reggie Walton
Re: Libby leniency

Dear Judge,

In exchange for writing this letter, my friend Scooter Libby's attorneys have agreed to compensate me with two repossessed yachts and my own weight in virgin's blood. I am not at liberty to reveal where they procured these gifts, and I don't care. Frankly, I would have written this letter for half as many yachts and a third as much blood. You see, I don't need them. There's no need to drain a virgin's veins. My skin is luminously exfoliated enough without it. And my docks are so full, I'll just have to smash those yachts to pieces. What I'm trying to say is this: I'm rich, so you know my opinions hold some weight.

And it is both my opinion and a simple fact that Scooter Libby cannot receive the twenty-five years of imprisonment he faces under his current conviction. Obviously he can't keep a secret. Any grand jury can see that. Do you think Valerie Plame's C.I.A. status is the only thing he's ever blabbed? I don't really know Libby all that well, but where there's smoke there's fire. The ability to keep a secret is of paramount importance while in prison. Thirty years ago, I was thrown into a Turkish labor camp over a minor indiscretion involving myself, an abandoned warehouse, and the gifted algebra class at an Istanbul girls' school. Do you think I would have made it out alive if I'd spilled the beans to the guards about mine and my compatriots' escape plans? Of course not. All those nights nursing bleeding knuckles and weaving hair ladders would have been for naught.

Not that I'm implying Libby would ever successfully escape prison. He's obviously not cunning enough to pull off any sort of gambit. I mean, how hard is it not to tell a grand jury that you never spoke to Tim Russert when you know they're just going to interview Russert himself? How dumb do you have to be? Your honor, I know you've been around. You know what kind of fate a mush-brained blabbermouth will suffer in prison. Not even a position in the Bush White House can prepare a man for that. To you and me, Scooter Libby may seem like nothing more than a huge asshole, but to the inmates at a federal penitentiary, he will literally be nothing more than a huge asshole. Those animals will be playing a non-stop game of pack-the-sardines in Libby's posterior, and for what? For lying to a grand jury? For endangering a United States intelligence agent's life for political revenge?

Look, even if you don't feel for Libby himself, please consider all those minor drug offenders and white-collar money launderers whose penises will inevitably be lodged in his rectum. President Bush nicknamed Libby "Germ Boy" for a good reason. No, it's not because he insisted on universal smallpox vaccination. It's because he's close personal friends with a man whose name rhymes with "gonorrhea". Do you really want Libby's cellmates dipping their wicks in that? Remember, once these people get out, they'll be the ones in the White House. If you treat them well now, there may just be a nice federal appointment in the deal. How does Ambassador Reggie Walton sound? There's nothing like a never ending stream of yachts, virgin's blood, and a little diplomatic immunity to soften a man's heart.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On cutting a break

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Ron Lopp, California Medical Association spokesperson
Re: Assisted suicide

Dear Dr. Lopp,

So, Dr. Death himself, Jack Kevorkian, is set to be released from jail and a bill is moving through the California legislature which would legalize doctor-assisted suicide in your home state. You, of course, oppose the bill. Any physician worth his weight in prescription drugs knows that a doctor's role is to help a patient to the best of his ability, not to end life. I believe you put it best when you described assisted suicide as the "ultimate abandonment of a patient". Indeed, without a doctor by his side, how could a terminally ill person stretch out his life another two to three months? Frankly, death is the easy way out, and those who take the easy way never build the character one needs to succeed in this modern world. If my Druid protection spell ever wears off and I contract an incurable disease, here's hoping I could count on a responsible doctor like yourself to hook me up to drug me, tube me, and irradiate me until the last bit of mitochondrial strength is sucked out of my cells. I'm willing to give up my sense of taste and my ability to recognize my loved ones if it means a few more weeks of marginal brain activity in a hospital. Preferably one of those swanky Jewish ones. Hospitals are just like airplanes -- always choose the kosher meal.

Let me tell you a story. When my Uncle Toby contracted terminal flesh-rot in the jungles of New Guinea, he wanted to die. By the time I found a house sitter and made it down to see him, he was really nothing more than a torso and an arm. With that arm, he somehow managed to scribble the words "kill me pleez" on his bed sheets with a pus-covered finger. How utterly selfish. Uncle Toby's hospitalization was the closest thing to a family reunion we'd had in years. There we were, taking time out of our lives and redirecting our magazine subscriptions, for what? To watch our dear uncle dissolve into a gelatinous puddle and to enjoy a bit of Aunt Delilah's fruit cake while we were at it. Was it too much to ask Uncle Toby to keep his neurons flaring a couple more days? I don't think so. But the selfish bastard kicked it just before I could make time with my cousin Wilma, who turned out not to be as closely related as I thought. And the sadness he caused! Thankfully, we only had Uncle Toby to blame. Could you imagine if his doctor had murdered him?

Actually, I wouldn't have blamed the doctor if he had offed my uncle. Toby kept taking the I.V. out of his wrist and jam it into what was left of his heart. Fortunately, he wasn't too dexterous with the single arm, but the poor doctor kept having to put the needle back in place. Christ, Uncle Toby was annoying.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


RESPONSE #1
From: Michelle Grant, CMAnet.org
To: Laurence Shandy
Re: Letter to Ron Lopp

Ok, I’m not sure why this is directed to you, or should I say to Dr. Lopp, but this is kind of funny. Normally I would delete something like this, but this guy writes with a good sarcastic tone that I couldn’t pass up. Enjoy! Dr Lopp!! HA!


REBUTTAL #1
From: Laurence Shandy
To: Michelle Grant, CMAnet.org
Re: Mis-sent correspondence

Dear Ms. Grant,

International literary celebrity Laurence Shandy here. Obviously you mistakenly re-sent my letter to Dr. Lopp back to me. I have no idea who you are, but you obviously intercepted my communique with Dr. Lopp. You must, therefore, be in his confidence. I trust you'll make sure he actually receives my letter, though I am a bit put off by your description of my "sarcastic tone". Believe me, there's nothing sarcastic about the Pabst Blue Ribbon can filled with my Uncle Toby's greasy remains that I keep on my mantle. A tribute? Not so much. Uncle Toby hated Pabst Blue Ribbon. Serves him right for all the pain his painful disease caused my family. If only the little solid matter left of him could rot, I would wish it do so in hell.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


RESPONSE #2
From: Michelle Grant, CMAnet.org
To: Laurence Shandy
Re: Mis-sent correspondence

My sincere apologies, Mr. Shandy. I will be sure to forward your memo to Ron immediately. You should know, however, that Ron Lopp is our Broadcast Manager and not a doctor. I meant no offense by my "sarcastic tone" comment. If anything, your message served as a breath of fresh air to those we normally receive from our public site. Again, my apologies.

Michelle

REBUTTAL #2
From: Laurence Shandy
To: Michelle Grant, CMAnet.org
Re: Apology

Dear Michelle,

Apology accepted. As far as my fresh air-iness, I'm only glad I could be of service. Speaking of, how would you like an all expense paid night out with an international literary celebrity? I happen to know one, and his name rhymes with "me".

As a collector of macabre devices, I've managed to procure one of Dr. Kevorkian's death machines. Fill it full of cyanide and it's a one-way ticket to an early grave. Fill it with vodka and amphetamines, however, and it's a one-way ticket to pleasure.

Think about it.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


RESPONSE #3
From: Michelle Grant, CMAnet.org
To: Laurence Shandy
Re: Titillation

In so far as Uncle Toby’s Pabst Blue Ribbon can isn't confused with the vodka bottle, I’m sure Kevorkian’s death machine would be a hoot!! A real chick magnet, I imagine.


REBUTTAL #3
From: Laurence Shandy
To: Michelle Grant, CMAnet.org
Re: Titillation returned

Dear Michelle,

Actually, I own a chick magnet as well. It's a device from the time of the Inquisition. Horseshoe shaped, of course. It was meant to attract only witches, but pretty much any woman who comes within thirty yards of it gets yanked off her feet. I don't think it's God that makes the thing work (since, obviously, God doesn't exist), but I do say a prayer of thanks every time I see the magnet in action.

How's this weekend sound? If you don't recognize me from my dust jacket photos, then you'll recognize me as the man in the chopper.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On being practical

Memorial Day Special
6 PRACTICAL USES FOR DEAD IRAQI CHILDREN

To celebrate this Memorial Day, I present this reprinted article from the May 2003 issue of Vanity Fair, shortly after President Bush's famous "Mission Accomplished" speech.

With the war in Iraq officially over and the mighty United States hailed as the inarguable victor, the average Joe Q. Everyman may be tempted to pack up his concerns and move on to fresh ideological pastures – say, figuring out how to exact revenge upon the French or strategizing a way to ease back into segregated public education. But our work in that former Middle Eastern dictatorship – while done – is far from finished. Before the U.S. military ceased and destroyed any official count, the number of fatally liberated Iraqis reached well over 3,500. And those are just the civilians! Add that tally to the almost five hundred American freedom martyrs so far (3,443 confirmed American deaths as of May 2007 - ed.), and you have a lot of dead people on your hands.

Sure, you can rifle through the pockets of the adults and sell their valuables back to their grieving families for an inflated price – thus, teaching capitalism. And you can just ask the news not to take pictures of all the dead Americans. But what good is a dead Iraqi child? It’s not like they owned anything.

Well, they may be more useful than you think. Here are six simple suggestions for making the most of all those dead kids.

1. Dog food

Let’s face it, our furry little pets don’t eat the finest cuts of meat. Most pet food factories consist of a giant meat grinder mincing up tons upon tons of horse lips, pig tails, and old tires into delicious looking nuggets. Why subject all our less adorable animals to simple meat products and waste all those perfectly good automotive supplies when there is a ready supply of fresh meat available amongst the ruins of downtown Baghdad? Many Iraqi children who survived our initial Shock and Awe campaign have since picked up a fun looking bit of undetonated cluster bomb and subsequently been blown into thousands of tiny pieces. That cuts down on half the meat grinding right there. Flatten some of those youngsters down into thin, wavy strips, and Fido won’t know he’s not having bacon for dinner!

2. Education

If an Iraqi mother of two can't understand when a U.S. soldier tells her to stay in the pantry while he rifles through her jewelry box, then perhaps a visit from the recognizable half of her son could make the point.

3. Experimentation

Who’s to say an enterprising young professor couldn’t sew together some ripe pieces of Iraqi child, add a little formaldehyde, shoot it full of electricity, and create a living, breathing, semi-sentient ghoul fully capable of being programmed to sing, dance, and love freedom? How about it, science?

4. Fuel

The Iraqi population has relied for such a long time on their oil supply for amenities such as central heating and transportation that they’re probably going to be pretty angry about our having won it from them. Until they realize that eighteen Iraqi children burn almost as well as a drum of oil. And with half the toxic emissions. Plus, unlike oil, dead Iraqi children don’t take millions of years to be replenished. Just nine months and a couple of smart bombs later, and you’ve got enough fuel to last through the winter.

5. Conversation

Remember when the Berlin wall was toppled by the focused will of native Germans to live in a united, sovereign, and free country? Well, the people of Iraq kind of did the same thing. Except we helped them out with bombs. But no one would recognize a piece of Iraqi wall displayed on your coffee table. They’d probably think you just lifted it from the construction site across town where the Planned Parenthood center is being leveled to make room for a new Super Wal-Mart. But there’s no arguing with the authenticity of a dead Iraqi kid’s finger. It’s slightly browner than a normal person’s finger, and it comes with a signed certificate of authenticity from Secretary Donald Rumsfeld (remember those days? - ed.). Such a unique historical souvenir is the perfect icebreaker.

6. Sustenance

Urban legend maintains that some of our favorite movers and shakers live off of the life-giving energies stored within the blood of dead Iraqis – especially dead Iraqi children. Rumor has it that super sexy Fox News anchor Shepard Smith, Roger Ailes, and Deputy Defense Secretary Paul Wolfowitz all shrivel up and die if not pumped full of nutritious bodily juices from dead Iraqi kids. No one knows for sure if this is true, but why not send them a few carcasses just in case?

On giving credit where credit's due

Dear readers,

It's funny the way life works out sometimes. Paul Wolfowitz has been booted from the World Bank, and scuttlebutt is that Bush will appoint former senator Bill Frist to take his place. Turns out I wrote to Sen. Frist over a year ago on the topic of immigration reform, also a subject recently in the public eye.

With that in mind, I present to you that topical chestnut from the Shandy archives. In another twist of synchronicity, this re-run means I can get a head start on the four-day Memorial weekend!

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


From: Laurence Shandy
To: Senator Bill Frist, M.D.
Re: Immigration

Dear Billy,

Yes, it's me. Laurence Shandy. I suppose it's time for me to slide a big hunk of crow right down my throat. I remember Nashville, when I was writing an exposé on Tennesseans who adopt animals for sexual gratification, and you were a dashing young medical student telling the shelter that you wanted an adorable new tabby for "companionship". I remember thinking, "He's cute, he's a doctor, and he's sexually adventurous? Sign me up!" Little did I know you were just using those kittens to cut out and dissect their hearts. I have to say I was disappointed. That is, until you showed me the wonders a man with steady, smooth, aristocrat's hands and a high tolerance for blood can provide.

In bed!

You get it? I always loved how you would say that after reading the fortunes you found in the cookies you pulled from my rectum.

I'm writing to tell you that I was wrong when I said you would never amount to anything. At that point in my life, I had a 48-hour time limit on any relationship, and you were pushing into the red zone. I had to say something, and that seemed like the least offensive remark I could make. After all, you're from Tennessee. The odds were in my favor.

But look at you now. All dimples and puffy cheeks every time I switch over to C-SPAN. I've been following your career very closely, Billy, and I've jotted a list of kudos for you in the back of the Dukes of Hazzard notebook you gave me on our last night together.

Kudos on the whole Terri Schiavo thing. That slut was totally faking, and you called her out. A few years spent slack-jawed in a wheelchair with no discernible cognitive response does not a vegetable make. Hell, that's how I spent most of the '70s. My ex-wife, Meredith, even tried to pull the plug on me, though mine wasn't so much a feeding tube as it was a cocaine catheter. Actually, that's probably what woke me up.

Also, kudos on letting the truth be known that AIDS can be transmitted via tears and sweat. I was totally justified in firing my maid, Consuela. After just seventeen hours of re-grouting my marble tennis courts, the woman was crying and perspiring all over the place. If you weren't spreading AIDS everywhere, then why do you refuse to take the test, Consuela? Wrongful termination, my brown-eye.

And Kudos for keeping stock in your family's hospital business, Hospital Corporation of America. So what if they provide hundreds and hundreds of abortions on demand? There's nothing sexier than a man who puts family before politics.

Finally, kudos for opposing that new immigration bill. If the U.S. government had done a better job keeping the immigrants out of my manual labor pool, Consuela never would have smashed up my Rolls with a baseball bat.

That's right, Consuela. I know it was you.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On giving thanks

From: Laurence Shandy
To: John Ashcroft, former United States attorney general
Re: Celebrating sodomy

Dear Mr. Ashcroft,

Laurence Shandy here. I know it's been a while, but I'm sure you remember me. We sure had some good times while you were in office. I've never used so much Crisco in all my life. Frankly, it's been a dull nation without you around. Where's the titillation in an attorney hiring scandal? You, sir, brought sexy back to Washington. No longer would the Spirit of Justice just stand around with a tit hanging out. Where's the mystery in that? By covering her dangerous curves with velvety curtains, you restored the sensuality of the law. The Spirit of Justice should be a cocktease, not some gutter slut.

But the biggest event of your tenure is what I want to celebrate. 397 years ago today, the Virginia colony passed the first anti-sodomy laws in North America. For nearly half a millennium, the United States' ass bandits, butt spelunkers, and sausage hiders would have to practice their passion in secret. And in 2003, two men in Harris County, Texas were doing just that. On an anonymous tip, the local police stormed Mr. Tyrone Garner's apartment and hauled him off to jail for making whoopee with Mr. John Geddes Lawrence (no relation).

Mr. Garner's case finally made it to the Supreme Court in 2003, where the justices struck down Texas' anti-buggery law as unconstitutional. What a relief it must have been to realize your justice department could finally be associated with something positive. No longer did you have to suffer under the boxy shadow of Janet Reno and her Branch Davidian-burning, Ruby Ridge-shooting B.A.T.F. It was as if the nation bent over, spread its cheeks, and bellowed forth a Bronx cheer of liberty. At long last, those of us who would enter through the exit, ride the chocolate rocket, or even dive headfirst into a muff could live in peace and security.

So, I say its time we catch up, Mr. Ashcroft. I've got a tub of Crisco here, and I'm ready for you to anoint me. Or I can anoint you. I'm a top or bottom.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On letting go

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Dick Cheney, vice president of the United States
Re: Excuses

Dear Dick,

Listen, I think it's time for an intervention. I've given you a pass for a while now, but I feel like I should finally speak up. We've been close for what, over thirty years? Most of my friends from those days are either dead or my current enemies, and I don't want you to go down either path. Remember the '74 Bilderberg meeting? When you were in that coffin with a ribbon tied around your penis? I want you to think about those times. Think about the trust we shared, and listen to me.

It's time to quit it with all the war justifications. I saw your toadie Bush give his speech today about bin Laden trying to use Iraq as a terrorist base. I think the general public is as stupid as you do, Dick, but a toddler could see through this crap. First of all, everyone knows you made that bin Laden guy up. My parents tried the same thing. There was no hook-handed pedophile living in their liquor cabinet. It was just full of delicious liquor. All these bin Laden stories are stretching America's suspension of disbelief. The concept's so tired, you might as well start teaming him up with other phantom enemies from the past. Saying bin Laden tried to set up an Iraqi terrorist base in 2005 is no more plausible than saying bin Laden and Gaddafi have built a gravity ray to capture the moon.

And even if your story wasn't made up, any Google search could tell you the war started in in 2003. People are going to ask questions, Dick. This isn't like Roswell. Some redneck farmer finds a mess of dead aliens in his back yard, and you can trot out some general fifty years later to say the farmer mistook seeing alien bodies in 1947 with seeing dead soldiers on the news in 1953. It's called "time compression", and people bought it because it sounded plausible.

But you can't explain away two years of unjustified war with "time compression", Dick. Stick the pacifier back in Bush's mouth and go on television yourself. Tell everyone the truth about this war. It's not about freedom. It's not about weapons of mass destruction. It's not about terrorism.

It's about little Dicky Cheney. Remember what they used to sing about him? "Little Dicky Cheney, he's so Gay-ney!" You sang it that night in Portugal. Holding your ribbon-wrapped penis and slapping the sides of your coffin. Whatever you took that afternoon must have finally kicked in. We all watched you cry. Well, except Kissinger. I think he laughed a little bit.

Still, you need to let go. Bring the troops home. You have nothing to prove, Dick. I've seen your balls. They're like ostrich eggs.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


RESPONSE
From: The Office of the Vice President
To: Laurence Shandy
Re: Excuses

Thank you for e-mailing Vice President Cheney. Your comments, suggestions and concerns are important to him. Unfortunately, because of the large volume of e-mail received, the Vice President cannot personally respond to each message. However, members of the Vice President's staff consider and report citizen ideas and concerns. Please visit the White House web site for the most up-to-date information on Presidential initiatives, current events, and topics of interest to you.

Thank you again for taking the time to write.

On making the most

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Barry Lynn, atmospheric scientist, Columbia University
Re: Climate change

Dear Mr. Lynn,

International superstar and science fan Laurence Shandy here. Congratulations on your study group's findings making national news. You may be simply riding the coattails of global warming mania, but a hit's a hit. I like that you put a relatively local spin on your story. Not only is the whole world growing warmer, but the Eastern United States will become especially toasty. Now that's a story that'll play in Peoria. Peoria is east of the Mississippi isn't it? I'll look it up later.

I think you're making a mistake, however, in casting yourself as the apocalyptic soothsayer character. Al Gore's already cornered that market. Running with quotes like "Unless we take some strong action to curtail carbon dioxide emissions, it's going to get a lot hotter" is Gore territory. You're just inviting comparison you can't possibly live up to. I said the same thing to Tony Blair when he was first thinking about reinventing himself into the Thatcher-esque hawk he's become. "Stick with what you know, Tony," I said, but he wouldn't listen. And now look where he is. Plopped on the couch watching Neighbors reruns and enjoying an early retirement. Is that any way to live?

So, here's some free advice, Mr. Lynn. Ease up on the doom and gloom. We're going to keep emitting carbon dioxide, and the Earth is going to keep getting warmer. Just ask a polar bear. Quick, before it drowns. Global warming is a vague, unfightable concept. Like terrorism. So, I say you corner an area of the new (warmer) world market that doesn't already have a spokes-celebrity. Why not talk up all the benefits of an east coast with a 90-degree average temperature? Hey, no more worrying about where you put your sweater. Isn't Fudgie the Whale even more delicious on a hot summer day? Why don't we go outside and see if you can really fry an egg on the sidewalk? Remember that old Crocodile Mile in the back of the shed? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Maybe you could write a book about making the most of warmer weather. You don't have to tell people you're an environmental scientist. Why not say you're a comedian? You could be just like that guy with the stupid hair who wrote that book about how women's boyfriends don't really like them. You could call your bestseller something like Burnin' Up! or It's Gettin' Hot in Here! You know, something with a dropped "G" and an exclamation point. Maybe there could be a picture on the cover with a bunch of sweaty people playing volleyball. Like that scene from Top Gun. And maybe the inside of the dust jacket could be a tanning mirror.

I'm getting excited just thinking about this, Barry. You think the Dakota Building would have a problem with me setting up a Crocodile Mile in my flat?

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On special operations

From: Laurence Shandy
To: United States Federal Bureau of Investigation
Re: Deadly bees

Dear F.B.I.,

International literary sex symbol Laurence Shandy here. Depending on how long the agent reading this letter has been at the bureau, he or she may recognize me by my F.B.I. codename, Norman Mailer. I did some work for the feds back in '78. The information I provided then, while obtained under questionable legality, served to bring down you-know-who before he could take you-know-what and use it to blow up you-know-where. If whoever's reading this is some kind of rookie, go ask your superiors. If not, then you're probably a rogue agent serving time in mail detail for unnecessary property damage. In that case, you're just who I need.

You see, starting earlier this month, the bees have been on the attack. 7,000 of them swarmed the emergency room at the University of Arkansas medical center. Acting on a tip, I questioned one of the hospital's employees, Dr. Delaney Kinchen. I thought he might have been performing ungodly hybridization experiments on the bees, and they'd come for revenge. I went deep undercover as Dr. Kinchen's girlfriend. Pumped him full of vodka tonics and shrimp cocktail. You wouldn't believe the things that came out of his mouth that night. For that matter, you wouldn't believe the things that went in his mouth. Regardless, the guy checked out. It was a dead-end hunch, saved only by the fact that Dr. Kinchen's real girlfriend, who I detained in my pantry, has become one of my closest friends. With benefits.

And now another swarm of bees -- this time 3,000 of the bastards -- has tried to attack a fundraising walk for the American Cancer Society. What they have against cancer research, I have no idea. Could they be working for the Bush administration? Maybe. But the fact is that all I remember seeing of the monster that took my Meredith was tentacles and spines and bees.

This is getting out of hand. I'm too close to this, damn it! That's why I need the wise-cracking, rule-bending F.B.I. agent reading this letter to take up the slack for me. I have a German marine biologist working on tracking down the bee monster that started this mess, and I'm taking a cue from the suspicious Dr. Kinchen and employing a British hybridization specialist to augment myself with some bee-resistant genetic weaponry. What's the natural enemy of bees? Wasps? Hell, I don't know.

But while I'm overseas having my arms replaced with hornet's wings, I need some feet on the ground here in case there's another attack. Are you with me, agent?

I knew I could count on you, whoever you are.

Best wishes,
Norman Mailer (a.k.a. Laurence Shandy, gentleman)

On revenge

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Dr. Angelika Brandt, marine biologist, University of Hamburg
Re: New Antarctic species

Dear Dr. Brandt,

Congratulations on your discovery of a treasure trove of new marine species around Antarctica. The prestige you earn from this expedition will undoubtedly serve as the first step on a quick journey to marine biology fame and fortune. Soon, you will be hobnobbing with the artistic élite, snorting lines of cocaine from the most exclusive toilet seats, kicking the likes of George Clooney and Linsay Lohan out of bed in the morning. It's all about the sex for you. There's no time for love when there are more unknown crustaceans grazing the ocean's rocky bottom.

I understand you're a busy woman, so I'd be all the more appreciative if you'd take a moment from your Versace fittings to listen to my story. I'm hoping your expedition may have discovered a prey I've hunted for over a quarter century.

You must realize that I was leading a life very similar to yours. I was at the height of my profession -- trotting the globe and missing deadlines with the best of them. The world was a buffet of physical pleasures, and I piled them on my plate, tongs in both hands. My peers were the icons of American letters, and my lips would only leave the bottle long enough to suck upon the crotches of Hollywood royalty. It would take a special woman to earn the privilege of my obsession. And Meredith was a very special woman.

I won't go into all her virtues, but suffice to say, I've never met another woman who could pee on me all night and whip up a vat of Hollandaise in the morning. We spent a month straight in my Alpine loft, dining on fine French sauces and each other's bodily fruits.

But as Adam and Eve forsook paradise in that famous comic book story, so to did I forsake Meredith. An ex-KGB operative named Kloft took advantage of me in the back room of a Moscow gin joint. I was on assignment for Teen People, undercover in the fast-paced world of Russian ballet, and Kloft caught me in a lonely moment. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it. Kloft was experienced in all manner of interrogation techniques. Add a couple of nipple clamps, and you've got a recipe for adultery.

I came clean to Meredith upon my return home. Turned out she'd been servicing most of the surviving members of Lyndon Johnson's administration. It was a fetish she had, and she was left all alone as well. I could still smell Bill Moyers' Old Spice on my pillow. I could taste his seed on our brandy glasses.

So, Meredith and I went on a relationship-mending circumglobal yachting expedition. The first few weeks were rough. We barely spoke to one another. We sat on opposite sides of the sleeping cabin, watching each other masturbate and sneering. But we had rented the yacht from Brangelina, and when we discovered their hidden cooler of cough syrup and heroin, the tide of our voyage changed. Meredith and I could share something again. We'd spend the days chasing the horse and cutting each other with fishing line. We were in love.

And our love is what the monster must have smelled. Either that or all the blood we dripped in the water. Regardless, on a cold Sunday afternoon somewhere in the Indian ocean, a sea beast plucked my Meredith right off the deck. I didn't get a good look at it. It only seemed to exist in my peripheral vision, but I caught glances of tentacles and spines and swarms of bees. It was unspeakable.

My years spent stowing away aboard whaling ships and sampling only the fleshly pleasures of salty seamen led to naught. I never saw the creature again. Which is why I'm writing you, Dr. Brandt. Perhaps you discovered such a beast on your expedition? If not, perhaps you could keep an eye out for such a beast on your future expeditions. Perhaps we could discuss this over a nice dinner. It's about time you insinuated yourself into the tabloid personal life of an international literary celebrity. I think we could make an excellent team -- seeking revenge and fortune on the open seas.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


RESPONSE
From: Dr. Angelika Brandt, marine biologist, University of Hamburg
To: Laurence Shandy
Re: New Antarctic species

Dear Lawrence,

I never came across to see such a creature, but I will look out for it...;-)

With best wishes,
ANGELIKA

On playing god

From: Laurence Shandy
To: John Burn, director of human genetics institute, Newcastle University
Re: Human/animal hybrids

Dear Prof. Burn,

Laurence Shandy here. I hear you're looking to begin work on developing human/animal hybrid tissue for use in stem cell research. Fortunately, the British government has given the go-ahead. After years of hotter heads prevailing with delusions of a dystopian future wherein the world is controlled by a four-headed queen bee and her bee-man drones, it's good to know that science has won out. Obviously you're not looking to fertilize human eggs with animal sperm or vice-versa. At least not yet.

Of course nobody wants his or her firstborn son to be taken by the bee-people for sexual experiments, but that's really only reason enough not to combine our precious DNA with the honey makers. There are, however, several animals whose genetic material would make an excellent addition to our own. Why not see this new legislation as a foot in the door for the burgeoning augmentation movement? And by "burgeoning", I mean I've just started it. There's still time to get in on the ground floor, Professor.

Think about it. Haven't you always wanted to swing from branch to branch of the Honduran rainforest like a monkey? Cast off that British repression and think about that kind of freedom. With a pair of monkey arms and a prehensile tail, we could enjoy that freedom together. Just you and me at first, but there will be others. We will build a palace of banana trees high in the canopy. We will dine on the fresh coconut milk our gibbon/cheerleader slaves bring to us, and we sill sit on thrones built from the bones of our enemies. Haven't you ever wondered what a night with a buxom coed/ostrich hybrid would be like? Don't you know how far up those legs would go?

But that's in the future. It's all about baby steps. I'll spread the word among the trustworthy while you go ahead with your whole stem cell thing. I suppose a cure for Parkinson's might come in handy in our new world order.

Keep in touch, Professor. Or should I call you the Monkey Queen? Or I can be the queen. Whatever. I'm flexible.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman/monkey

On faith in action

Dear readers,

As a tribute to the late Rev. Jerry Falwell, whose heart stopped because it was two sizes too small, I present to you this correspondence from the Letters from Shandy archives. Last year, I wrote to Ms. Ruth Malhotra (pictured), a student at the Georgia Institute of Technology, who was suing the school for violating her civil right to badmouth homosexuals. Rev. Falwell would have been proud of her. Regretfully, I have no idea how her lawsuit turned out, because I refuse to research the issue. Each of us grieves in our own way, and laziness is mine.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


From: Laurence Shandy
To: Ruth Malhotra
Re: Lawsuit

Dear Ruth,

Worldwide literary wonder Laurence Shandy here. I read about your recent lawsuit against the Georgia Institute of Technology for not letting you express your Christian faith through vocal proclamations against homosexuals. I get that. Once, Harold Bloom and I were rolling on ex in his motel room during an AWP conference -- I think it was in Cleveland -- and we decided to take out the Gideon Bible and highlight the silliest parts. He particularly enjoyed the erotic symbolism of the apostle Thomas' poking of Jesus' hand holes. He giggled so hard, I could barely keep his penis in my mouth. My favorite part, though, was the bit where the apostle Paul writes about how women who braid their hair give Jesus diarrhea. Or something like that. Anyway, it was funny. My point is, we were free to do and say whatever we wanted, because we were in America, and we were paying by the hour.

As an American, I cannot abide the repression you face every day when your God-given bigotry is disallowed. People of all faiths and creeds should be allowed to say whatever they want to anyone they want, regardless of how "intolerant" such sentiments may be. Even if you said you wanted to round up all the gays and dump them in a vat of feral sharks, you should be offered the same protection as someone who says he or she wants to murder the president or -- God forbid -- Katie Couric.

I myself have fallen victim to anti-free-speechers, agenda-mongers, and other hyphenates when publicly practicing my own faith. You see, I belong to the Church of Everlasting Beauty. We believe in compassion, understanding, and generosity of spirit. Also, we hate the crap out of ugly people -- or, as we call them, ugloes. Our god is the hypothetical child of Salma Hayek and Johnny Depp. Jalma. And praise be to Jalma's name when some soccer mom with no mascara goes to Wal-Mart and gets punched in the face by a follower of the CEB. Jalma smiles upon those who would track down club girls with fat rolls hanging over their rhinestone belts and key their Mustangs. What Not to Wear on TLC is our 700 Club.

Which brings me to my real reason for writing you, Ruth. You have got to do something about your makeup. You look like you dipped your broken-out head in a vat of lacquer and hit yourself in the face with a frying pan. And that American flag pin? So September 11th, 2001. It's '06, baby! Know it and show it.

And I know a doctor who can fix that nose.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On dead weight

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, president of Iran
Re: Dissident abduction

Dear Mahmoud,

International literary sensation Laurence Shandy here. I'm nervous writing to you, so let's acknowledge that upfront. You're a fantasy of mine. Well, not you specifically, but your type. There's just something about tiny Iranian men and women that drives me crazy. I've not visited your country since the revolution, but I still remember the feeling of riding on top of an itty-bitty Persian. It's like taking a trip on a magic carpet. When I see you on television, I just want to pop you in my mouth like a juicy date. I want to put you in my trouser pocket and rub you against my nether regions all day. Something about that beard and those close-set eyes -- just thinking about them has made me spill my vodka all over myself. I'm dripping wet, Mahmoud, and I want you to lick me dry. Which is worse in the eyes of the Prophet? Tongue-bathing another man or consuming alcohol? Regardless, I'm a double-whammy of guilty pleasure.

Just saying.

So, to the point. I read about your country's recent detention of Haleh Esfandiari, an Iranian-American academic, on suspicion of espionage and inciting democracy. I know you're going to bear the brunt of the blame for this, and I'm sorry. If it were up it you, this kind of thing would never happen. You're an open, easygoing guy. Remember those students who threw firecrackers at you? How you didn't have them all decapitated? That's what I'm talking about! And what kind of brutal dictator would wear those sexy open-collar shirts? None I've ever known.

We all know the real culprit here. Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. He's the bastard who's gotten you in hot water time and time again. What's his problem with the Jews? Did that guy choke on a bagel as a kid? Does he have something against corned beef or witty neurotics? I know you're not an anti-Semite. You just have questions about whether the Jewish holocaust ever happened. That's called critical thinking. And who can blame you, since those fucking Ayatollahs won't let anyone read The Diary of Anne Frank? Spoiler alert: it's depressing. And I bet you can't even rent a DVD of Life is Beautiful. It's a movie about how being obnoxious helped Jewish kids to feel better about being sent to die.

And since the Ayatollah is commander-in-chief of the Iranian military, it was he who captured those British sailors a while ago. And he who tortures political prisoners. And he who can't get with the program fashion-wise.

It's time to dump the dead weight, Mahmoud. Spread your wings. Live free. After all, you're the one who was elected. You have a mandate from the people. Who does the Ayatollah have a mandate from? Allah? That guy's crazy himself! I've never even seen him wearing a nice sports coat in any of his graven images.

May I suggest taking some inspiration from American singer/songwriter Patti Smith's song People Have the Power? You probably can't find her CDs in Iran (fucking Ayatollah), but the song goes something like, "People have the pooooWER! People have the poooooWEH-UR!" And then there's some screaming about something. I can't really remember the rest. I've been licking my arm, and I'm totally plastered.

Yes, that was an invitation.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On information control

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Gen. B.B. Bell, U.S. Forces Korea commander
Re: Banning MySpace/YouTube

Dear B.B.,

How is it over in Korea these days? I miss my time in Seoul covering the war for Harper's. Those were the days, eh? Expense accounts filling to the brim with enough money to bet on the dog races, pay for a heaping plate of the losers, and still have some left over for a whore or two. Remember when the world was simple, B.B.? When wars were always great? When the public was satiated with a little East vs. West playacting while the rest of us trotted off to some Portugese resort for a little Bilderberg depravity? Maybe you weren't on the inside at that point. But, man, you should have seen Jack Kennedy and Khrushchev after they'd drained a couple barrels. They knew what we wanted to see, and they were more than willing to offer a demonstration.

The best thing about those salad days was the relative dearth of mass communication. There was no e-mail. No MySpace or YouTube or RateMyPoo.com. You could tell your editor your typewriter jammed or your manuscript must've been lost in the mail while you spent a few more days sampling the local delicacies and leaving a trail of bastard children. Hell, it was expected.

Nowadays quotes have to be "recorded". Notes have to be "corroborated" and "e-mailed within a reasonable time". And anyone has access to reality. No longer do people rely on the Fourth Estate for a clearheaded, well-funded, and officially sanctioned account of world affairs. So what if I wrote a seven page Vanity Fair piece on the bright side of life in Vietnam? I could write all I wanted about Saigon's opulent petting zoos and delicious Franco-Asian cuisine. I was payed well by the United States government, and there wasn't a reporter in the world who'd contradict me unless someone paid him to. Money is blind just like justice and Marlee Matlin, and we all know those are both great things. These days there is no code of honor among journalists, because everyone thinks he needs a piece of the pie.

So, I'm all for banning the military from using YouTube and MySpace or any other of these democratizing abominations. Who needs soldiers filming themselves kicking down doors in some Iraqi village and posting those videos on YouTube? Who needs Iraqi villagers photographing soldiers kicking down their doors and posting those photos on their MySpace pages? Those stories are mine to tell or not tell. If a soldier's family back home wants to know whether he's been blown to bits, well that's my jurisdiction. They can read about it deep inside the Wednesday Times just like everyone else who's paid for a subscription. And for the right price, people in a position of command like yourself can tell me what stories you want me to tell. Hell, the price isn't even that high. I'd rather skip the research. That time could be much better spent trying to mail order another Korean whore.

I guess that's why I'm writing to you, General B.B. I haven't been allowed back on the peninsula since that incident with the bottle rocket and the puppy's head. You know the one. The pictures were all over the Hearst papers -- paid for, might I add, by my wealthy and numerous enemies. I don't deny the events in question, but I blame my expense account. If Harper's' circulation hadn't been what it was, I never could have afforded fireworks or puppy parts.

God, I miss those Korean whores. They're just like Japanese whores, but with more cushion.

Anyway, try and pull some strings for me, huh? I can get you an invite to the next Bilderberg meeting if you want? Ever seen Henry Kissinger give Rupert Murdoch a lap dance?

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On building bridges

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Joseph Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI)
Re: Brazilian saint

Dear Mr. Ratzinger,

¡Buenos días! That's Spanish for "good day", which is British for "hi there". I know you've been in Portugese-speaking Brazil lately, but Portugese is really just an illiterate form of Spanish, so careful about going around using Spanish phrases. The Brazilians are known to kill the uppity.

But they'd have a hard time sticking you with one of their poison blowdarts, since you're traveling in the nigh-invulnerable Popemobile. Congratulations on the whole Pope thing, Mr. Ratzinger. I'm not entirely familiar with the trials one must complete to become Pope. Is it true you have to kill a silver-back gorilla with your bare hands? That may just be an urban legend. Still, I think you should consider adding that one to the list. If you don't mind my saying, Ratzo, your chosen form of Papal dress -- in fact, a dress -- tends to come off as effete. Especially in hyper-masculine, cannibalistic societies such as Brazil. Knowing you fought and killed a wild gorilla might go a long way toward butching up your image. Kind of like how a gay friend of mine, Carl, wears pants that cover his buttocks whenever he visits his family in Virginia.

Hey, speaking of cannibalism, have you tried telling the Brazilian natives about your organization's whole transubstantiation routine? Eating the blood and body of Christ is not unlike feasting on the flesh of a ripe young virgin. I don't care what Dan Brown says, Jesus had to have been a virgin. In my experience, ladies go more for the wrathful, Old Testament types. Of course, Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, I suppose. Did Jesus have any disposable income? I don't know, maybe I'm wrong.

Anyway, all I'm saying is that there's a lot of ways to win over our friends south of the equator. Bonding over the deliciousness of man-meat (human muscle, I mean, not cock) is just one way. I'm glad to see you've thought outside the box and transmogrified one of your Brazilian-born missionaries into a real-live saint. Too bad the guy's dead, though. Who knows what kind of good he could have done with his new saint powers. Feats of strength, light shows from his fingers -- those savages are pretty easily impressed. Weren't they the ones who worshipped a Coke bottle that time? Someone putting on a show of saint magic would have them eating from the palm of his hand -- as opposed to just eating the palm of his hand. The only trick would be in getting them to worship God and not the saint. Maybe the saint could claim to be God? That's how Jesus rigged it. Hey, and that would make the saint even more Christ-like.

Sure is a shame the guy's dead, Ratzo. Maybe next time you should consider canonizing someone who could do some good.

Not that the dead guy never did any good. He was the one who first wrote little prayers on rice-paper pills and had people swallow them to cure their cancer. What a brilliant public relations move for your organization. Even brainless savages were bound to catch on to the fact that prayer doesn't work. Lord knows a handful of Vicodin will dull the pain after an S&M romp much quicker than a little kneeling at the bedside. By handing out prayers in pill form, your new Brazilian saint was able to add at least a few decades to these people's suspension of disbelief.

And it was a win-win for the secular side, too. Anyone dumb enough to take a prayer pill for his cancer is really just another glorious victim of natural selection. Maybe you could bring that up the next time you're traveling through the United States. Bring the educated and the religious together, you know? But I'd recommend against wearing that dress. Rudy Giuliani's drag queen snapshots might cost him the Republican nomination.

How about a nice pair of jeans? Buttocks covered, of course.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On being vigilant

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Joseph Fusz, assistant state's attorney, Lake County, IL
Re: Child pornography

Dear Mr. Fusz,

Paragon of American letters Laurence Shandy here. Kudos on your recent high-profile child pornography bust. Seventeen-year-old Christopher Colles will soon be rotting behind bars like the predator he is. Asking another seventeen-year-old girl for nude pictures on the Internet? She's just a child! I don't even want to think about it, but he was probably planning this for a while. Christ, man, they were probably in the same chem class. Who knows how many days he spent staring through his safety goggles, ogling her as she adjusted her Bunsen burner. Disgusting.
The mandatory four to fifteen year prison sentence is simply not enough.

Frankly, I've been afraid for the moral fortitude of my own illegitimate daughter, Laurencia. She has her eyes on some boy named Jackson in her third grade class. She wouldn't shut up about him. I could barely hear myself drinking. If she would have mentioned Jackson's "adorable blond hair" one more time, I'd have turned her in myself.

I tried to explain it to her, Mr. Fusz. Jackson's just a child. Seeing him as some kind of sexual object is nothing short of criminal! I tore his picture from her yearbook and burned it right in front of her eyes. And then I educated her about when it's appropriate to feel attracted to people. Her eyes shouldn't be on her pre-pubescent classmates! If she's going to desire someone, she should desire a full-grown man with abs and pecs! A man with pubic hair and dropped testicles!

And it's not just this Colles kid and my illegitimate daughter who are the problems. Just the other day I saw two children making out in car outside Chili's. They couldn't have been over sixteen. With all that tongue wagging, I couldn't even tell who was the predator and who was the victim.

Here's a statistic. 75% of girls in this country have had sex before they turn twenty. That's right, sir. They aren't simply posing nude for their classmates. They are all being statutorily raped by their peers.

Think about that, Mr. Fusz.

It's a statistic so sobering, I'm off to Chili's for a few El Presidentes. If I see any teenagers making out, I'll keep an eye on them for you. I'll sit near a window, sip my margarita, and watch and watch and watch.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On intolerance

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Mitt Romney, GOP presidential candidate
Re: Faith

Dear Mitt,

International literary icon Laurence Shandy here. First off, let me take a moment to marvel at your name. Mitt. Ah, the images that name conjures. Oily leather. Fast-flying balls. Sweat dripping down your brow on a hot spring day. It's a man's name. An American's name. A presidential name.

Too bad you're Mormon, Mitt. I would have loved calling you up on the red phone and making an "executive order" for a little late-night "covert invasion" into my Nicaragua. Man, the eighties were a great decade.

Speaking of your faith, I've heard about Al Sharpton's insensitive comments. About how he said you'd be defeated by those who really believe in God. Is he on crack? Probably not. Just in case you don't know, Mitt, not all black people smoke crack. I know there's not a lot of color in Salt Lake City, so you may need this information to prevent future gaffes. You can thank me later.

Anyway, Sharpton should realize that you both believe in the same God. The God of Abraham. The same God who killed every first-born Egyptian child, who provided instructions for a golden box which rendered the Israelite army invincible, so they could pillage and plunder the land of Canaan. The same God who sent an angel down to Earth to impregnate a virgin teenager with His Holy Seed, so she could give birth to His Son who is also Him who is also a Holy Ghost. You both believe in the miracle that despite a complete lack of historical evidence, this Son who is also God and a Ghost actually existed. And not only did he exist, but he died and was resurrected, whereupon he ascended to Heaven to be with his Father/Self until he comes back at some point in the unknown future. And after 2,000 years, Mitt, you and Al are both still waiting for his return.

You have a lot in common, Mitt, and Al needs to recognize and embrace those similarities. Sure, you have your differences. Al believes that the Holy Ghost can possess human beings and force them to speak in unintelligible tongues. Also, that women who cut their hair or wear pants will suffer for all eternity in a lake of fire.

You, on the other hand, believe that a man from Vermont was visited by an angel named Moroni who told him where to find golden tablets which he translated using magic stones he kept at the bottom of a hat.

Is any of these beliefs more ridiculous than the other? I don't think so, Mitt. They're both equally insane.

Still, you don't have a chance. Maybe you could find a way to spin the whole magic stones thing?

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On political humor

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Nicole Hunter, reporter, KUTV-Salt Lake City
Re: Satire

Dear Ms. Hunter,

I recently watched your excellent piece of satirical faux-journalism on the "retarded" boy who dresses up as President Bush and sings the Star Spangled Banner at his bathroom mirror. I've not seen as edgy and incisive a comedic presentation since Swift's Modest Proposal.
Not only do you comment on the seeming mental disability of those who would still support the president after the lies leading up to the war in Iraq, the Valerie Plame scandal, Abu Ghraib, U.S. attorney firings, attacks on civil liberties, and his inability to navigate the English language, but you also dangerously skirt the public's delightfully shameful instinct to laugh at the retarded.

Your creation of this "retarded" character is nothing short of genius. Sure, anyone can slap some makeup on a guy and make him appear to have Down syndrome, but only you could have thought to dress him in those goofy ties.

And to name him Brigham! You're right, only the water-brained and those who believe in golden tablets that tell of a Conan the Barbarian scenario in pre-European invasion America could possibly be Bushies these days. In fact, what's the difference between Mormons and the retarded? At least the retarded have an excuse!

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

(Letters from Shandy readers, watch the video here.)


RESPONSE
From: Nicole Hunter, reporter, KUTV-Salt Lake City
To: Laurence Shandy
Re: Satire

Wow.
I have to say that of all the offensive emails I have received this one may top it off. I believe I feel that way because instead of attacking me personally you are attacking a wonderful man who has a special talent and despite opinions from people such as yourself has maintained a very outgoing personality and a general feeling that he is not only capable of doing great things but is actually doing them. The audacity of suggesting that I would 'create' a 'character' to bash 'retards,' the President and Mormons? Wow. You may sign your email 'gentleman' but this email suggests you are anything but.

May you find peace and a better understanding and acceptance of the wonderful people in this world...

Nicole Hunter


REBUTTAL
From: Laurence Shandy
To: Nicole Hunter, reporter, KUTV-Salt Lake City
Re: Satire

Dear Ms. Hunter,

Laurence Shandy here.

Okay, I'll play along. No need for anyone to see the man (or in this case, the stunningly beautiful cub reporter) behind the curtain. So, this "retarded" "man" is "real", eh? Fair enough.

Still, I can't imagine the offense you've taken to my letter can in any way compare to the offense I've taken at your misinterpretation of my kudos. Indeed, I'm not suggesting you are poking fun at the mentally disabled. Jerry Lewis, in his satirical telethon, may be lampooning the plight of the crippled, but I was congratulating you on the fact that your humor is far more cunning. I'm savvy enough to realize that you aren't ribbing any "actual" "retard", but are instead taking a stab at the Bush administration and its supporters.

I mean, let's assume your character is, in fact, "real". How would a local news broadcast depicting this retarded man dressing up as George W. Bush and singing the national anthem in front of his bathroom mirror in any way serve to make light of him? It wouldn't make sense!

Regardless, I'm glad you at least understood my admiration of your Mormon bashing. Still, by handing out free copies of the Book of Mormon, they're doing all the bashing themselves, am I right? That thing's less plausible than The Lord of the Rings!

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On minding manners

From: Laurence Shandy
To: George W. Bush, president of the United States of America
Re: Etiquette

Dear George,

Laurence Shandy here. I know I haven't written you in a while, but I've been overseas helping to clean up your mess in Babylon. Seriously, all this over a woman? Saddam hadn't even spoken to Laura in years. You two were barely even married when you caught her riding his mustache. And, frankly, weren't you a little out of it yourself? It was a Bilderberg party, George. Just because there's no Cremation of Care ceremony, it doesn't mean the debauchery should fly just like out at the Grove. Lighten up.

So, I hear the old battleaxe herself is coming to visit today. Don't mention me to the Queen. We never got on very well. She wanted me to be a mindless golem just like her husband, and I'll have none of that. I'm my own man, I said. And so what if I stole her son's wife? If Liz invites me to live with her in the palace, then it's my bed too, don't you think? Where else where Diana and I supposed to sixty-nine? I can still hear the Queen's sensuous, warbly voice. "This is no way to treat a monarch!" she yelled. "Maybe not," I said, "but this is." And I pulled her into bed with us.

Sometimes those things we desire most cause us the most shame.

Anyway, if you're going to be hosting a white tie and tails dinner for the queen of England, I thought you might need some refreshing on your table etiquette. I know you haven't participated in a formal ceremony since you masturbated in a coffin at Skull and Bones, so you're probably lost. Not to worry. To wit:

Arriving at the table

First things first. Look for your placecard. You'll probably be seated at the head of the table, but that spot my be reserved for Her Royal Majesty. Your name will be written on the placecard in calligraphy, so don't bother reading it. Just stand behind each chair until someone else sits in it, then slap that person on the back and ask him/her how the hell he/she is. When there is only one empty seat, sit in it.
Immediately place your napkin in your lap. Don't shake it out or flap it around first. Don't tuck it in your collar. If it's folded into the shape of a swan, don't flap its wings and yell for Dick Cheney to take a shot while the shooting's good.
If you are seated next to someone you don't know, politely introduce yourself. If you're seated next to the queen, don't compliment her on her titties. She knows she has lovely titties. She is, after all, the queen.

The place setting

Intimidated by all those glasses and all that silverware? Don't freak out, George. Keep your voice down and remain calm. It's actually very simple. Knives and spoons are on the right side of your plate, and forks are on the left. Work from the outside in. You know your right from left, correct? Your right hand is the one you wave with. Your left is the one the devil loves.
Speaking of, remember to keep your hands out of your pants. Yes, the queen has a beautiful chest and sultry eyes, but store that fantasy for later.

During the meal

Don't fiddle with your tie. It's a clip-on, and people will be able to tell.
Hold your red wine glass by the bowl and your white wine glass by the stem. Where's the beer? There isn't any. Don't ask. "I could use a brewsky right about now", while not technically a question, is still considered a request.
There should be three to four lines of cocaine under your salad plate. Snort them after the salad and before the main course. No, you cannot save them for later, and no, you cannot have any more lines.
Do not ask for any of "that pickle powder" for your meal. It's fine on popcorn and great on Condy Rice's thighs, but not so appropriate for a formal meal. Most people don't like their roast beef with a pickle flavor, so it's salt and pepper only.
If the queen asks you to pass the salt, it's polite to pass both the salt and the pepper. In England, people usually mean both. Kind of like how in Texas a "Coke" means just about any kind of soft drink. And how a "terrorist" is pretty much anybody you don't like.
If one of the queen's magnificent breasts happens to pop out of her top, do not push it back in with your face. Also, do not clear your throat and hold your cupped hands in front of your chest like you're weighing imaginary cantaloupes. Instead, pretend nothing has happened. If the dessert course is served and the breast is still exposed, it is acceptable to take a quick lick of the queen's nipple as long as you don't smack afterwards.

By now you'll probably have forgotten about the rule barring self-pleasure. Please, George, if someone catches you manipulating yourself at the dinner table, do not make a quip about "giving the surge time to work". It's simply not funny. On any level.

Enjoy your meal.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On yellow Snow

From: Laurence Shandy
To: David Gregory, NBC News White House correspondent
Re: Tony Snow bracelets

Dear Mr. Gregory,

Laurence Shandy here. I know you're a cub reporter, so you may not recognize my name. Think back. You're a sophomore at Journalism Academy. You're shotgunning a Pabst Blue Ribbon and toking from your roommate's apple bong. It's the night before finals. You've partied a little too hard. You're not sure if you wrapped it up last night before sticking it to Soledad O'Brien. You're cramming for your 215 class, Journalistic Icons of the 20th Century. You should have read it months ago. The prof spent a whole week of class on it, but you were too busy scoring dimebags from the trunk of Shepard Smith's Corolla. It's my classic Vanity Fair piece, Going Down on the Down and Out: One Reporter's Journey Into the Heart of Homeless Eroticism. So, you skimmed it. You scraped by with a C, and that's only because Dean Miklashevski likes them tall and gangly.

I suggest you track down a copy of that seminal story and give it a proper reading. Matt Lauer never did, and look what happened to him.

So, now that you know who I am, let me tell you I'm not too sure who you are. I tried watching a couple of those White House press briefings, so I've seen your sasquatchian bulk looming in the front row like you've just been defrosted from a glacier. But that's about all of you I've seen. Frankly, I'm too frightened by Helen Thomas to keep watching those things. Helen is a demon from my dreams. At night, she chases me into neon-lit alleyways and robs me of my manhood against a urine-stained fence. Plus, our relationship never really took off. It ended kind of badly, actually. Seeing her kind of still hurts, you know? You know how that goes?

Anyway, I don't watch the briefings, so I don't know whether you wore one of those yellow bracelets with "Tony Snow" on it. I know the White House press office passed them out to all the reporters. Seems sensible to me. After all, poor Tony has cancer. That's the same disease Lance Armstrong had, and those yellow bracelets were the only thing that cured him. Something to do with magnets, I think. I'm no doctor.

But for some reason I keep reading about some kind of outrage over this. People are throwing around epithets like "empty gesture" and "theatrical sympathy mongering" and "didn't Bush just cut the National Cancer Institute's funding by $40 million?"

A bunch of hot air, if you ask me. First of all, those bracelets may be fashionable and functional, but they're not empty gestures. Three words: Lance. Armstrong. Cured.

Secondly, what's the sudden problem with sympathy mongering? Where was the outrage when Franklin Roosevelt rolled around in that ridiculous contraption to rally support for the New Deal? Have we forgotten that the proceeds from Roosevelt's appearance on the Jerry's Kids telethon funded the first quarter-century of social security? FDR was no kid. And television hadn't even been invented! That's just dishonest.

Look, I know it looks bad that Bush cut cancer research funding at the same time his press secretary is going through cancer treatments. But without that $40 million, how would the White House have made all those bracelets? They're made of rubber and magnets and maybe some other stuff, but none of that grows on trees. Plus, the publicity generated from an entire White House press corps' wearing of those bracelets -- and I hope to God you wore yours, Gregory -- could save even more lives.

Think about it. We take endangered animals from their natural habitats and put them in zoos so the world can see them up close. Get to know them a little. Stand in front of their cages with arms raised like, "Oh no, it's about to eat me!" Then the world goes home and donates money to the organizations trying to protect those animals.

So, in the same way, the White House should donate Tony Snow to a zoo. And then the world will see him with his cancer and buy yellow bracelets and donate money to the National Cancer Institute. Pretty soon, they'll make back all 40 million of those dollars. And in a few more years, they might even make back the money Bush cut from their budget last year. It's a win-win!

Make this happen, Gregory. And wear the damn bracelet.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On erotic arts

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Randall Tobias, director of the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID)
Re: Fantasy fun

Dear Ambassador Tobias,

Laurence Shandy here. I know you've come under fire recently for your implication in the prostitution ring allegedly run by Deborah Jeane Palfrey. I want you to know that you have my total, unquestioning support. According to Ms. Palfrey, her organization did not provide illicit and illegal sex to high-ranking members of the Washington, D.C. élite. Instead, her company, Pamela Martin and Associates, offered a generous menu of delectable young women who would give you a deep-tissue massage -- on your back, might I add, which is perfectly legal -- and engage in some light, relaxing chit-chat. They may have come to your house, but they did not come in your house, and no law was broken.

For some reason, the media seems to have difficulty believing that you would hire a nubile young fawn to simply work out some of your shoulder knots. They are implying that you actually had sex with these women. Haven't they ever heard of the erotic art of abstinénce? You yourself have been one of abstinénce's biggest proponents. In your role Director of Foreign Assistance, you have spread the gospel of abstinénce throughout the third world as a healthy alternative to a painful death from AIDS.

Kudos to you, sir. I, for one, have had first-hand experience with the more media-friendly AIDS alternative, the common latex condom. I agree with you. The things don't work! They're rough as hell, for one. Why, a few years ago I almost had to give up an ongoing sexual relationship with the Olsen twins for all the chafing. Fortunately, Ashley (the smart one) had the idea of lubing up my rubber-clad member with a handful of spunk from her sister's eyebrow. And guess what? Nine months later, the Olsen twins became the Olsen moms. Thank God their list of recent sexual partners was as an Albertson's receipt, or my streak of unclaimed fatherhood would have come whining to a halt!

And besides, a few visits from buxom congressional interns with sacks full of lavender oil would be completely ruined by genital-to-genital contact. It goes against the very art of abstinénce. You build the tension. You nurture it. You inflate your scrotum with so much spunk, you could ride your testicles like rubber jumping balls. Then, you unload them into your good lady wife.

Or, in my case, into Lou Dobbs' brown-eye.

Keep the faith, Ambassador. You'll win in the end.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On tempting fate

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Dr. Delaney Kinchen, emergency room doctor, University of Arkansas medical center
Re: Bees

Dear Dr. Kinchen,

Celebrity wordsmith Laurence Shandy here. I read about the recent bee attack on your hospital, and I'd like express my deep relief that no one was harmed during the siege. Bees are nature's Al-Qaeda. They're burrowers. Secretive. They conspire in swarms. Strike with deadly precision. They make delicious honey. They are bearded.

I can't imagine facing down an oncoming horde of 7,000 bees. It's a scenario inconceivable outside an ER season finalé. EMTs rushing gurneys through the sliding glass doors. Nurses shouting into telephones. The word "stat" spinning through the room like a dagger at a circus.

Your quote in the Arkansas Democratic-Gazette's article sums up the danger. "I've been stung thousands of times and never had any problems," you said, "but I know people who have been stung twice and almost died."

You are a hero, sir. A protector of the sick and bee-allergic.

And you are also a fraud.

"Thousands of times", Dr. Kinchen? Who has the opportunity in life to be stung thousands of times by vicious bees? What game are you playing here? Why are you at war with the bees? What have you done to them? Your experiments have gone too far, doctor. The best of intentions lead to the worst of deeds.

Damn it, man, you are not God!

Don't cross the bees, doctor. This was only a warning. As I so painfully know, they are capable of much, much worse. They took my Meredith from me. Pray they take nothing more from you.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On tightening our borders

From: Laurence Shandy
To: United States Citizenship and Immigration Services
Re: New naturalization test

Dear U.S.C.I.S.,

International literary icon Laurence Shandy here. I'm writing for two reasons. First, kudos on this May Day for finally amping up the rigor of your naturalization test for United States immigrants. For too long Mexicans and other brown people have been granted U.S. citizenship after proving only a slightly above native knowledge of our history and doctrines. If I have to have another conversation with the hombre rotating my Maserati tires about the book he's reading on Jamestown's quadricentennial, I'm going to be driven to a hate crime. Just keep scrubbing Scarlett Johansson's she-come out of my floorboards, Pedro. Don't lecture me about Thomas Jefferson's hard-on for Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

It's about time we raised the bar for these immigrants at least as high as one of those sections of border wall. But the other reason I'm writing is because I don't think the new naturalization test goes far enough. "How many amendments does the Constitution have?" "We elect a U.S. senator for how many years?" "Who is the Senate Majority Leader now?" Any retard with a student visa and a Shakira poster could memorize that stuff. So, here are some sample questions from a new test I've come up with.

1. How much did the U.S. pay for the Louisiana Territory?
a) 14 cigarettes and a bottle of wine
b) a mule-full of dime sacks
c) Thomas Jefferson's first-born hijo
d) some money

Answer: d

2. What are the colors of the U.S. flag?
a) chrome, aqua, and orange
b) turquoise and silver
c) red, blue, and red
d) none of the above

Answer: c

3. What does freedom of religion mean?
a) Baptist
b) Methodist
c) Unitarian
d) Catholic

Answer: a, b, or c

4. If the U.S. president could no longer serve, who becomes president?
a) the vice-president
b) Presidentbot 6000
c) Laura Bush
d) winner of text-message vote

Answer: I don't know, but shouldn't it be the last one? Just a suggestion.

5. What country is on the northern border of the United States?
a) Montana
b) Delaware
c) Cold Mexico
d) Vermont

Answer: Okay, the real answer isn't listed, but I think we shouldn't tell any immigrants about Canada. They'll take any old hungry bum yearning to breathe free. And their test is much easier.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman


RESPONSE
From: United States Citizenship and Immigration Services
To: Laurence Shandy
Re: New naturalization test

Thank you for your comments on USCIS.gov. Your message will be read within two business days. Due to the large number of messages we receive, we cannot reply to every message beyond this automated acknowledgement and you should not expect an individual reply. Under the Privacy Act, we cannot provide any information about a pending application or petition for benefits, or answer any case-specific questions.