On making headway

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Reese Witherspoon, actress
Re: Salary

Dear Ms. Witherspoon,

Congratulations! No, I'm not talking about your recent split from husband Ryan Phillippe, although I suppose some kudos are in order there. I'm sure you'll sleep better at night without that droopy monotone buzzing in your cranium, and you'll make more successful morning trips to the bathroom without worrying about tripping over your ex-husband's perpetually pouty lower lip. How did you deal with that thing, by the way? Did it rest in a kind of bedpan on the floor? And what about the drool problem?

Anyway, as happy as I am that you've finally cut the dead weight, I'm even happier that you've been named the highest paid actress in our great nation! Now you can finally afford to fix your face. It warms my heart to know that even the pie-faced and butt-nosed among us kind climb the ladder of Hollywood success all the way to the top. Of course, it didn't hurt that you gave all the stepped-on masses below you quite a view. From the neck down, you're quite a looker!

However, you may want to hold off on the reconstructive surgery for a spell. Who knows whether you've risen to the top of the pay heap based on your talents and not your handicap? After all, it seems a little hard to justify a $20 million price tag for an actress who didn't even have the lead role in her most successful film in five years. In fact, your monetary value could be directly related to your appeal among America's dumpy. Soccer moms across this great land can peel their husbands away from the emotionally numbing television long enough to go see one of your romantic comedies, then come home and not feel so threatened when they look in the mirror. There's something to be said for such a talent. Maybe that's why Scarlett Johansson's movies never make any money. I take one look at her perfect proportions, and I almost want to kill myself. And I'm better looking than you!*

That said, you may want to go under the knife after all. The young Sissy Spacek had kind of a so-ugly-you-want-to-fuck her appeal, but now that she's hit middle age, it's more like a so-ugly-god-she's-so-ugly "appeal". If you don't want to waste away your golden years playing the mother of the girl who falls in love with her dog on the Hallmark Channel, a little nip and tuck might do you wonders. Just don't spend all your money in one place.

Unless, of course, that place is your face.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

*As judged by the readers of the July 14, 2003 issue of Teen People.

On clarification

From: Laurence Shandy
To: The Guy on Craigslist Who Used My Article to Make a Political Point
Re: The Use of My Article to Make a Political Point

Dear Guy on Craigslist Who Used My Article to Make a Political Point,

I'm not really sure what kind of political point you're trying to make by using my Vanity Fair article on the practical uses for dead Iraqi children. You were responding to a particularly anti-Muslim post on the San Diego Craigslist site, and you mention something about a photo of 9/11 and "Ameritards".

First of all, no photo of 9/11 accompanied my article. It is, instead, a photo of Muslim women and children running and screaming from an explosion in Iraq. As New York City is, in fact, a city--not some desert wasteland with a single lightpost--you should have been able to stave off this error using simple context clues.

Second, my article does not blame "all Muslims for the actions of GWB". I'm assuming here that by "GWB", you mean George W. Bush, though if you're actually talking about Geoffrey Winslow Bates, screen star Kathy Bates' less popular son, then I apologize. I don't blame all Muslims for the actions of George W. Bush. In fact, I don't blame all Muslims for anything. It's silly to go making blanket accusations against such a huge group of people. Unless, of course, one would like to blame all Muslims for practicing the Looney Tunes-esque absurdity that is Islam. Which I would, and I do.

Regardless, my article was not meant to be political in any way. With its helpful hints and do-it-yourself spirit, it's really no more controversial than an episode of Surprise by Design. But instead of telling you how you can make the most of your old drapes, I'm offering suggestions as to how to use all the adolescent body parts that would otherwise be thrown in Halliburton's collateral damage bins.

That said, the World Trade Center towers would still be standing in all their retro '70s glory if it weren't for the murderous Islamic doctrine so cynically and inhumanely fed into the fallow minds of Muslim youth born and bred to follow the arbitrary laws laid out by an illiterate, child-raping warlord from the 7th century.

Also, 9/11 had nothing to do with the war in Iraq. What are you, an Ameritard?

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On misplaced anger

From: Laurence Shandy
To: The Government of Sudan
Re: Jailed teacher

Dear Sudan,

Don't you like how I didn't call you "the" Sudan? I've done the research into your beautiful country, and I found out that you're not a "the". In fact, there are very few countries that are "the"s. Ukraine is just called Ukraine. The Netherlands is... Actually, isn't Holland really The Netherlands? I don't know, and, frankly, I don't care.

See, I'm not an insensitive type. Just because I'm white and of European Christian decent, and I'm not totally ignorant to your customs and ways. Sure, when people mention "The" Sudan, they can't help but harp on guerrilla fighters abducting young boys and mutilating the genitals of young girls, but there's a lot more going on in your fine country. However, you make an even worse name for yourselves when you overreact like you've just done.

You can't go throwing British school teachers in jail simply because they let their students name the class teddy bear Mohammed. It's a very popular name, like Whiskers or Sugar Smax (my teddy bear's name). It's definitely not blasphemy, no matter how you define it. And I have to tell you, the West doesn't look kindly upon any country that enforces blasphemy laws. Unless, of course, you're talking about Saudi Arabia, but they're kind of like the rich kid on the block. He's a bastard, but where else are you going to play Neo-Geo?

The least you can do is stave off any hypocrisy charges by cracking down on disrespectful depictions of the Prophet across the board. Why not start with that book you guys like. The Koran? Or is it just Koran? Regardless, that thing is chock full of all sorts of libelous claims about Mr. Mohammed. Are you really going to let malicious publishers flagrantly violate your blasphemy laws by printing books describing your most cherished celebrity as a war-mongering, bloodthirsty, illiterate pedophile with an inferiority complex almost as big as his head?

Throw the literati in jail along with that so-called "teacher". Maybe they can use their "education" to talk about "books". You know, stuff that has no place in Sudan. But no matter how tempted you are, please don't mutilate anyone else's genitals. That kind of stuff is getting harder and harder to explain.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On feeling around

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Christopher Hitchens, Vanity Fair contributor
Re: Waxed junk

Dear Hitch,

Congratulations on your efforts at self improvement. Maybe you're only turning your life around as fodder for your columns, but the deed is done regardless. Hopefully you'll tack a few more days onto the end of your golden years, but it'll be strange seeing the new you. Were we ever to cross paths covering the war-torn ravages of Eastern Europe, I'll be taken aback if I don't find you trolling the ruins of a bombed-out restaurant, locking your lips to the head chef's corpse and sucking away for any taste of semi-absorbed alcohol. If we stumble upon a gang of molotov-throwing anarcho-communists and you don't offer them sexual favors in exchange for a few cigarettes, I'll be shocked. And, of course, I probably won't recognize you if you drop below 180 pounds.

But good for you, and good for your lovely wife. Judging by our rendezvous at the National Book Awards last week, I can already notice an improvement. Sure, you still pilfered the wine glasses from all those who momentarily turned the other direction, but you did it with a kind of youthful vigor I've never seen from you before. And your pride in your newly waxed sack, back, and crack was well-deserved. Those editors and publishers who felt of your baby-soft genitals that evening were correct in dubbing them as smooth as summer cherries. It's an engineering feat in itself that so much scrotal skin could have been pulled so taut.

However, I must tell you that my own phalangial wanderings painted a less than healthy picture. I can't argue with their relative hairlessness, but I must say I felt a few worrisome bumps along the way from your urethra to your taint. Maybe they were only gooseflesh. After all, the non-fiction winner was about to be announced. (Sorry about the loss, by the way.) But with all my training in the fine arts of phrenology and reflexology, I feel I'd be amiss if I didn't warn you that the raised ridge along your life vein doesn't at all jive with the fact that Jupiter was in its western house that night. In other words, I think you have the herp.

If I were you, I'd get on the phone with anyone who left your company only to partake of a few pigs-in-a-blanket. We might have an outbreak on our hands. Literally.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On making waves

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Mike Gravel, presidential candidate
Re: Speaking up

Dear Mike,

I tried to watch the Democratic presidential debate last night. I really did. But I find the more debates I watch, the more my head becomes disoriented. Like a retarded kid on a merry-go-round, I don't know what's happening, but it all seems familiar. And the coverage doesn't help. I'm not interested in some manufactured three-way rivalry between Obama, Clinton, and Edwards. I could do without Chris Matthews' wild speculations as to whether Barack will pin Hillary to the ground, penetrate her vagina with an ice pick, and call upon John to bite off her ear.

Although that would at least be entertaining. And we'd all have to bear the uncomfortable pause when Hillary appears for the next debate sporting a diaper made out of medical gauze.

I guess what I'm trying to say is you've let me down. From the beginning of this campaign nearly a decade ago, I counted on you to pipe up as the voice of insanity. The Republicans have Ron Paul and his 9/11 conspiracy theories. You were our last best hope for a sudden outburst of bat-shit crazy.

And no, I don't count Dennis Kucinich. Crazy he may be, but with a wife that looks like that, he has a kind of inherent cool factor you'll never achieve. If the Unabomber had been married to a particularly sodomizable MILF, he wouldn't have received half the bad press he did.

While everyone else posed for campaign ads in front of crackling fires and shelves of fake cardboard books, you had the balls to throw a rock in a river and simply walk away. What happened to that guy? That's the guy I never would have voted for, but I always love to see.

If you don't open your mouth and let the crazy fly, the world's going to leave you behind, Mike. Let's face it, without this campaign, you're really nothing more than some wandering hobo with a terribly ill-conceived outlook on foreign policy. So the next time old what's-her-face is spouting on about how she may or may not support universal healthcare for only illegal immigrants, why not clear your throat, rip open your shirt, and tell America what we want to hear: "The chicken gizzards are loose, and mama's asshole needs a sprinkle! Let's negotiate with Iran!"

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, campaign adviser

On retaliation

From: Laurence Shandy
To: People magazine
Re: Matt Damon being named Sexiest Man Alive

Dear People magazine,

Fuck you.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On the lesser of two fakes

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Sen. Hillary Clinton, presidential candidate
Re: Planting questions

Dear Hillary,

Nothing against you personally, but I wish you weren't such a ubiquitous presence in the headlines lately. I'd much rather be writing to Barack Obama or even John Edwards. It's not that you're not a looker, Hillary. I'm sure you once did rather well in the rebellious upper-class hippie-in-music-taste-only demographic. It's just that there aren't many women who can fill out a pantsuit in all the right places. Gillian Anderson, maybe, and even she didn't start hitting on all cylinders until a few years into The X-Files.

But I just couldn't let this latest smear campaign against you go unanswered. So you planted some questions at a campaign stop. Big deal. I know there's been a lot of talk about how you're just another establishment candidate lining her pockets with corporate money and putting on whatever face you feel will get you elected. All of that may be true, though you should really consider shopping for another face. Something less, you know, doughy.

Still, there's a wide swath of difference between you and someone like George W. Bush. It's not a question of who plants questions and who has the knowledge, intelligence, and honesty to answer the real, extemporaneous queries of the electorate. Like anything in politics, it's a question of degrees.

Let's take Gary Condit, for example. Remember him? That guy murdered his own intern, and I can't remember which house of congress he belonged to--much less how to properly spell is first name. It could be Garry Condit, for all I care. My point is he only murdered one intern, and that's acceptable behavior. Maybe not for a serf working some monkey job for minimum wage, but congresspeople are held to a difference standard. Allowances are made in politics. Maybe if he'd murdered forty interns, I'd remember which state he came from.

Similarly, there's no comparison between your question planting and Bush's. You train your robots to ask about health care plans and what it's like being a strong-minded woman in a man's world. Fluff stuff, sure, but nothing compared to the questions the Bush camp plants. I once saw a White House staffer dressed in overalls stand up at a Bush rally and ask the president just how much Jesus loves us. And the guy still took fifteen minutes to come up with a coherent answer.

Your campaign be be a scam, but it's less of a scam than some others. Though this kind of insult-by-comparison isn't going to stop anytime soon. Who knows how it's going to rear its head in the future? I do, however, have a guess. When the media confronts you about Bush's impending invasion of Iran, just remind them of your differences with the commander-in-chief. He did it. You simply allowed it.

On second thought, you might want to stay away from real reporters. They don't tend to stick to a script.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On welcoming guests

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Joseph Ratzinger (a.k.a. Pope Benedict XVI)
Re: Visiting the U.S.

Dear Ratzo,

I'm so happy to see you'll be visiting me here in the States. Sure, you have to use a trip to Ground Zero as cover, but you and I both know why you're coming here. I think you'll have a great time. Everyone here seems to love you. No one in the media even batted an eye when you changed your name to Pope Benedict XVI. I thought it might take some time for your new label to catch on--maybe you'd have to suffer a few years as the cardinal formerly known as Joey Ratzo. But you have these people eating out of your hand.

Just a couple of tips to iron out the kinks of your visit. It's no big deal, but there are a few major differences between the U.S. and that gold-plated gaud-ville you call home. For one thing, you may slip on a wadded up scrap of latex as you're cruising the New York streets. For what they have in style, your Prada loafers are probably lacking in traction, and they're definitely no match for a cum-filled condom. That's right, Ratzo. They're everywhere. For the sake of expediency, you might not want to stop and pray for the lost sould of every little wasted sperm whenever you step on a condom. Chances are, your liaison from the visitors' center is going to have a stomach encrusted with little lost souls from the night before. It's just the way we live around here. It's a cultural difference that may be ugly, but you just have to overlook it. Kind of like your church overlooks genital mutilation in Africa. Natives will be natives, after all.

Another thing we like to do here is kill our criminals. Ironically enough, we usually catch them by examining their cum. Of course, that's also how we usually exonerate them, but that's beside the point. I know you frown upon capital punishment, Ratzo, but it's just the way we roll around here. Tell me you've never wanted to murder anyone in your life. According to that fantasy novel you're always quoting, desire speaks just as loudly as action. Over here, we just turn our desires into action. Why not stop by one of our fine prisons and flip a couple of switches or depress a couple of plungers while you're here. Just to see how the other side lives. It'll make you seem a little more tolerant, and it'll make for a great photo opportunity.

Before the flashes go off, though, you might want to think about rubbing a little shimmer under your eyes. You kind of have that dark circle, Emperor Palpatine thing going on. If you need a number, I know a guy. You might not want to shake his hand, though. It's probably covered in lost souls.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On Mailer

Dear readers,

Norman Mailer, the distinguished man of letters whose eyeballs haunt the logo for this very website, has died at the age of 84. Some have said his life served as a model for my own hard drinking, hard living, hard loving ways. On that I can only utter a feeble disagreement. Although it was he who taught me how to make love to a live kangaroo's pouch while writing a great American novel.

He will be missed.

Here I present a memorial video of Mailer rolling in the grass with Rip Torn.

On strike

Dear readers,

As you may have heard, members of the fantasy novel-esque Screen Actors Guild have decided to kink the entertainment hoses simply because the major Hollywood studios refuse to pay writers for anything they create for the Internet. Well, I'll have you know I write on the Internet (this is it right here, in fact), and I've never been paid a dime for it.

Actually, I probably should have been. Especially considering this website is owned by AOL/Time Warner.

You know what? I'm not going to write a letter today. I've got a case of Absinthe to snort my way through anyhow. See you suckers later.

I'm on strike!

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, rabble rouser

On treading lightly

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Pat Robertson
Re: Giuliani

Dear Pat,

I guess we haven't spoken since meeting on that cargo plane full of illegally mined African gold back in the eighties. As the shady looks we gave each other during the flight have already said, I know what you've been up to, you know what I've been up to, and it's best to just go our seperate ways. Still, I think we made the kind of connection only those dealing in shady back room business together can make. I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm sorry I didn't send you a condolence letter when you lost the '88 presidential election. You must have been crushed--especially after God told you you were going to win. What a let down.

Anyway, I read about your blossoming relationship with Republican presidential candidate and hero of 9/11 Rudy Giuliani, and I figured this was my opportunity to make up for lost time. You see, as a former comrade in sneakery, I feel like I should warn you off this guy before it goes too far. If I may be so bold, I've noticed your track record with male companions has been a bit spotty. Most of the televangelists you've befriended over the years are now under congressional investigation, and your former friend with benefits Jerry Falwell keeled over and landed neck-fat-first into a legacy of seething, reactionary bullshitery. You should be using your remarkable upper body strength to pick yourself up and dust yourself off--not rolling in the mud pit that is an association with Rudy Giuliani.

I know you two made time on a flight to Israel some years back (what is it about you and airplanes?), but I happen to know the guy. He's bad news. Sure, he might throw some legislation your way if he makes it to the White House. Maybe you'll get a wink as he vetoes some kind of mandatory sodomy bill. But the next thing you know, he'll be shacking up with a younger, more lively faith healer. He likes the newer vintages. By the time you're fed up enough to kick him out of your life, he'll just go sleep on the expensive luxury couch of one of his gay New York buddies. He'll be dressing in drag and performing abortions in no time--and you'll just be hole up in the 700 Club studio chowing down on Ben & Jerry's while sighing wistfully at footage of President Rudy tearing down another strip club.

This is a warning from an acquaintance in the know, Pat. Heed it like you would the voice of God. Unlike His, my predictions sometimes come true.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On omens

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Joseph Ratzinger (a.k.a. Pope Benedict XVI)
Re: Nancy Grace's spawn

Dear Ratzo,

You know I'm not one to buy into all that apocalyptic mumbo jumbo your church shoved into the back pages of the Bible. Why all the hiding, by the way? I understand saving the good stuff for the end, but it's a little jarring to be reading epistle after epistle after epistle, and then--BAM--a seven-headed dragon. Anyway, the whole thing seems dotty to me. Assuming St. John wasn't really an underpaid, non-union scribe of the early church with a grotesque imagination, I don't put much stock in the epileptic fever dreams of one of Christ's lesser hangers-on.

But I believe what I see. Or at least I believe what comes down the news service wire. And I have to say the news that two living creatures have slithered out of Nancy Grace's infernal womb is enough to start me browsing Amazon for a Left Behind novel. Well, almost.

I know you're not one to fret over the end of the world, but you predecessor sure was. I've seen the documents. I've been under a cardinal's skirt or two, and I'm surprisingly fluent in ancient Greek. The astronomers won't admit it, of course, and the deeds may have been doctored, but I happen to know J.P.2 dug deep into the Vatican's coffers and came up with enough dough to purchase the world's premiere observatories. I guess what I'm trying to say is maybe your Jesuits and other crazies should have been aiming their telescopes a little lower--maybe right between Nancy Grace's thighs--because only Wormwood could have gestated within that demonic husk.

Don't worry, we still have time. Neither of these twin engines of destruction yanked from Nancy Grace's loins could be Lucifer himself. He is, after all, the light bringer, and I've stared into Grace's eyeholes long enough to know there's nothing resembling light inside her. But they could be the Devil's heralds, in which case we'd better be prepared for Armageddon.

Kick off your Prada loafers, Ratzo. It's time to go to work.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On sympathy

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Oprah Winfrey
Re: Abuse

Dear Oprah,

How are you? That's not just an empty greeting. I really want to know how you're doing. Personally, I could never imagine being in your situation. You set up an academy in South Africa to train young girls to be your henchwomen, and here they go getting abused. I wonder how anyone could live with themselves after sexually, violently, and verbally assaulting teenage girls under their charge, but then I realize it wouldn't be all that hard. You know, comparatively speaking. Far less difficult, anyway, then continuing to breathe after realizing you, Oprah, have been let down.

Despite how often your tear-wiped face has appeared on my television to tell me how hurt you are that these girls were hurt, I can't imagine that their hurt matches your hurt. After all, they're teenage girls in South Africa, a country where a little sexual abuse is tantamount to an aggressive "how do you do?". You're Oprah Winfrey. Like E.T. with Elliott, a whole nation is empathically linked with your psyche. Your hurt is our hurt.

As this trial gets underway, I hope the media doesn't become distracted by a few young, abused faces on the witness stand and overlook the real story here. Maybe by setting aside a few minutes of your show each day to draw attention to just how much you're suffering, we can prevent you from ever suffering this way again.

Here's hoping.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman

On going undercover

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Washington State Rep. Richard Curtis
Re: Gay sex

Dear Dick,

Laurence Shandy here. I don't know if you know this, but the media seems to be all atwitter over the allegation that you solicited gay sex from a Spokane man and claimed he stole your wallet after you refused to pay the $1,000 you promised him. Oh, and also you were wearing women's lingerie.

Personally, I don't understand what the big deal is about men wearing women's underpants. If you'd been in a pair of silk boxers, no one would have said anything, and a nice pair of panties provides the same kind of luxurious comfort with just a little more scrotal support. Frankly, I don't know why anyone wears anything else under their trousers. And there's nothing wrong with gay sex by itself, either. In fact, I think the only reason you've made the headlines is because you're the third Republican in government in three months to be popped with a gay sex scandal.

A word of advice: abandoned this "deny everything" tactic your colleagues have so famously squandered. No matter how many times you tell the world you're not gay, there's always going to be the matter of the police report, the testimony of your gay sex partner, and your gay porn mustache. (By the way, don't think of shaving it. It compliments your bone structure beautifully.) Instead, why not just come clean? So you engage in a little gay sex from time to time--how else are you going to know it's a lifestyle you don't support? Don't knock it till you've tried it, as they say.

Look, I'm all the time engaging in activities of which I disapprove. It keeps the mind sharp and gives me more ammunition in my arguments against the practicing of those very same hobbies. I would never vote for the legalization of blindfolding donkeys and treating them like a cheating spouse, but I do it anyway. I can refute the morality of such an act in gross detail, because I've experienced it in even grosser detail.

I'm not saying gay sex should be outlawed or that homosexuals shouldn't have equal protection under the law (although that would make the whole enterprise titillatingly illicit), but I respect your views. And you obviously respect those views enough to explore them to the fullest. Kudos to you, sir.

But next time, try not to offer your wallet up for collateral to a gay prostitute. That's just bad business sense, and no one wants a state legislature who's so careless with money.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman