Wednesday, August 5, 2009

A Letter From Your Mail Carrier

Dear Mail Recipient,

Greetings! This is your Mail Carrier, more commonly known as your Mailman, which sounds a bit redundant, but also known as Robert Moskowitz. But, today I am writing not as Robert, Robbie or even R-witz which was my nickname on my little league team, but as your Mail Carrier. I am simply a concerned party. I have been delivering your mail for about two years now and I have noticed a startling trend in the amount of catalogs, credit card bills and packages filled with baby stem cells that you have been receiving as of late.

You seem to be getting more and more every day, especially the baby stem cells (is that redundant for me to say baby stem cells since they already come from aborted fetuses?) Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against the use of stem cells for the greater good. I subscribe to the Indian ideology of using the whole buffalo or in this case aborted fetus. It’s just that I don’t know what you could possibly be doing with the sheer tonnage of stem cells that I deliver to your doorstep on a daily basis. Also, this seems like a thing that you wouldn’t get through the regular post, but rather a private parcel service. Are you using them to help cure an ailing relative? Are you using them for research? Are you bathing in them as if they were lavender scented bath salts? I’m worried about you. I’ve seen you progress from Maxim to Playboy to Bitch Tits Weekly to the occasional Buns n Ammo (I, myself like to indulge in same sex pornography every now and again just to see what the big hoopla is. Turns out, the hoopla is anal sex, between two consenting, and sometimes not consenting, adult males.) I’ve grown with you, is my point. And now you’re getting all these catalogs and credit card bills and packages and frankly they’re heavy as fuck. My back hurt, and I was due for my annual hump inspection (just to make sure I remained a hump back and not a hump chest-these things travel sometimes- the humps) so I went to the doctor last week. He found (because let’s face it, women as doctors, p’shaw) that half of my spinal column had ground down to dust, which sure does explain the dramatic height reduction in the past two weeks. I mean I’m a humpback, but I’m no fucking midget. At least, I wasn’t two weeks ago anyways. But, I digress. You’re only hurting yourself with all of the catalogs, credit debt and stem cells (are you using them as some freaky aphrodisiac that must be rubbed vigorously on your genitals in order to be activated?)

I mean, let’s look at what you’ve got here: Lillian Vernon, Coldwater Creek, Newport News, H&M, LL Bean, A&F Quarterly (I didn’t even know they still made these. I’ll tell you the photography in these it sheer artistry. Sheer hot, sexy, naked, teenage male artistry), Frontgate, Hammacher Schlemmer, The Sharper Image, Brookstone, FAO Schwarz,, Harry & David, Sky Mall, Old Glory, Black Dog, Big Dog, Victoria’s Secret, Fake Penis Outlet, Omaha Steaks, West Elm, Guitar Center, Pottery Barn, Pottery Barn Kids, PB Teen and finally the American Girl Catalog (those dolls do have the coolest accessories. I wish I had a pony.)

Listen, you my friend are in a rut if I ever saw one. What you gotta do is 1) cancel all these catalog subscriptions, which would actually help me a lot and waste a lot less paper (Think green!) 2) Open a window (Every time I deliver your male the only things I can smell are stale stem cells, three week old pizza and despair) 3) Get out there and find some nice girl, buy her a wine cooler and just talk. You, my friend are a catch. Get out there! Any woman would be lucky to have you. Go shake some booty. Have some anonymous sex. It ain’t unprotected if you’re carrying a gun while doing it. The gun=your penis. You’re gonna be just fine. You just need to get out of the house.

Also, who’s Eric? You seem to get a lot of letters from him. I mean I feel like I know him from reading your mail (I do that sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. Okay everyday when I’m on the crapper), but I still can’t get a feel for who he is really. What is the essence of Eric? Does he smell like vanilla schnapps or peppermint schnapps? Does he like long walks on the beach or candlelit dinners (or perhaps both?) Is his penis bigger than mine? These are the things I want to know, if it’s not too much trouble.

So…I would really appreciate it if you would drop me a line. You know just put a letter in your mailbox, you don’t have to put a stamp on it, just address it to Mail Carrier at The Mailbox and I should get it. Unless, it’s my day off. Then Jimmy will get it, but it’s okay if he reads it because I was going to post it on the board at work anyways, so you know. No matter what it will get to me.
Remember what we talked about. Stop living a hermitted life of excess mail and also remember to put the full zip code when you address any of your mail. They always tells us to encourage that at the office. Between you and me, though, the zip code doesn’t mean shit. I mean it’s just a series of numbers. The computers can’t even read them cause people have such crappy handwriting, but not you. You have the touch of a fine calligrapher.

Forever Yours (too forward?),

Robert “R-witz” Moskowitz

P.S. Please stop sleeping with my wife.

P.P.S. “Accidentally” opened your test results. Sorry ‘bout the syphilis. My bad, about the mail, not the syph. It was your choice to sleep with my wife whatever disease you inadvertently contracted from her (which admittedly, she caught from me) is your own fault. You stupid stem cell aphrodisiac using God, you.

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