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