From the mailman to T1B
Posted: Thu Sep 20, 2012 12:22 am
September 19, 2012
Dear Friends and Foes,
Jeez it’s been just a little over a week, and I miss you guys already. I thought I’d drop you all a letter. I’ve been traveling all over the world in pursuit of that blasted Roadrunner for eight long days. No success yet. But I refuse to give up. I even called the Acme Manufacturing Co to voice my complaints about the effectiveness of their products, but they transferred me to a customer service department in India where I got absolutely nowhere. In the meantime, I’ve been seeing the sights of the world on this whirlwind chase. The cities, towns, and landscapes I have zipped past have been unforgettable, and the different people I have met, well, what can I say? Enclosed with this letter are photographs of some of the more interesting people I’ve seen and places I’ve been:
Luther, is that really you?
Wow. Wouldn’t you know it? The first person I came across while chasing after that confounded Roadrunner was my good friend Luther, sunning his newly sculpted body at a gym in Rio De Janeiro. He said hi to me as I passed, and I stopped dead in my tracks. “What the hell?” I gasped. I wouldn’t have guessed it was him, not in a million years. He had apparently stumbled upon the Fountain of Youth. It turns out that several years ago, in response to an advertisement placed in the back pages of a Spiderman comic book, Luther cashed out his 401K and bought himself a one-way plane ticket to Brazil. He promptly took advantage of an experimental stem cell injection, steroid suppository, and weight lifting treatment for the hopelessly decrepit. The program is conducted by renowned South American geriatric specialist, Dr. Vinny Boom-Botts. Well, look at him now! Luther is one of the doctor’s most prized patients. No wonder he no longer posts at T1B. Or maybe he does post. Maybe we just don’t recognize him.
Home sweet home in Siberia
Breaking the speed of sound along the lonely highways of Northern Asia, I came upon my old friend Atomic Punk. I skidded to a stop. He was living alone in this shanty wood house just south of the Norislk gulags. It was a sad sight to see, this once bright-eyed poster of yore exiled into this icy existence by T1B. I asked him if he had any friendly neighbors, and he pointed to the house next door. “Who lives there?” I asked. “Rick in Salt Lake,” AP replied, and I bowed my head in sorrow. “AP, this is what happens when you take yourself too seriously,” I said, but my words seemed lost. He just gazed at me, like he was looking right through me. Then we shook hands goodbye. As walked past Rick’s house, I heard Rick screaming from within his snow covered shack. “Fuck you, Mace,” he cried. “Just, fuck you. Just go get fucked, all of you. I hate you guys. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Man, I couldn’t get out of Siberia soon enough.
The mvscal brothers
I got this photo in the Pygmy village of Ba Aka. I bought it from a local villager for a handful of glass beads and a flashlight. The photo was taken back in the 1970s during mvscal’s less combative days. It depicts a happy-go-lucky mvscal with his nine Pygmy brothers. This was well before mvscal fled the country for T1B. From left to right are Im’Bara, Ibooga, Btui, Nantan, Peuee, mvscal, Aolo, Tito, Jermaine, and Michael. According to villagers, mvscal was always an ingenious boy. It is said that he stole a passport from an unsuspecting tourist. Then using a pair of mail order elevator shoes, some skin-whitening Chinese herbs, and a pint of homemade congolene, mvscal was able to sell himself to border authorities as a white man returning home from safari. According to local legend, he has successfully maintained the white man ruse for years.
Screw’s gals
I took this photograph on a Saturday afternoon. I found this lovely pair of nymphomaniacs just south of Stockholm, hanging out in a vacant lot beside an abandoned Swedish meatball factory. They called me over, and we quickly struck up a conversation. They introduced themselves to me as Bibi and Ingrid Sjostrom, sisters and proprietors of a small phone sex service called 800 BIG-RIDE. When they found out I had recently left T1B, they giggled and asked me if I knew anything about Screw Michigan. “Of course,” I said. “He and I are BFFs.” When I asked how they knew him, Bibi and Ingrid said that Screw often called them in the middle of the night for lengthy three-ways. “Some nights he’s our only customer,” Bibi said. “He has us both sing Kungssangen to him over and over, and then reads Neil Strauss out loud while pretending to slap our thighs and ride us like wild horses.” I had to laugh.
Will the real Goober please stand up?
I came across this novelty photo while traveling in the States, through North Carolina. The Goober Pyle photos were being sold at a local gift shop in Mayberry for $10 apiece. There were also Goober bobble heads, ashtrays, t-shirts, and refrigerator magnets. The sign said monies received for the items were going toward the George Lindsey defense fund, a legal apparatus set up and maintained by Lindsey’s children. A suite was being filed against Goober McTuber for dumbing down the Goober name. The family claims McTuber’s posts on T1B create an unfair association in the minds of readers between the two Goobers. So, how exactly will they be able to prove that anything can be dumber than Lindsey’s portrayal of Goober on The Andy Griffith Show? On its surface it defies belief, yet after having pored over McTuber’s posts for the past several years, attorneys think they have a solid case.
The swinging single
I followed the Roadrunner down to Barbados for a day under the Caribbean sun. I was hoping to rest my feet and knock back a few virgin Rum and Cokes at a local night spot. Who of all people should I find down there on vacation and living the life of Riley but T1B’s own R-Jack. He introduced himself to me as I entered. He was bursting with enthusiasm. He said he hasn’t been this excited since Donnie and Marie made their comeback reunion appearance in Las Vegas. “Take a picture of this,” R-Jack said to me, and he lifted his arm high up over his head, revealing his brand new tattoo. Reluctantly, I snapped the photo. “Chicks around here can’t resist a guy with tattoos,” he said. “Hey you!” he then shouted to a comely girl nearby, and she turned to look at him. Again he raised his arm high over his head. The girl set her drink down on the bar, and proceeded to slap R-Jack right across the face. She picked up her drink and walked away. “I guess she didn’t get it,” he told me. “No,” I said. “I guess not.”
Well, that’s it for now. Back to the chase. Looks like we’re headed north again. I’ll try my best to keep in touch. Beep beep. There he goes!
Yours Truly,
ML
