It’s time to take another question. I’m afraid this one is from a disgruntled man named Sven. I’m no detective, but he must be a postal employee, because aren’t they the ones who suddenly go berserk and tear up your Cabela's catalogue and read your postcards out loud at parties? Anyway, Sven is angry because…oh I’ll let him speak for himself.
So, what’s up with this crappy blog
that don’t give away
no free stuff or nothin.
Love, your friend
Well Sven, first of all I am not your friend, because friends don’t let friends use improper grammar. And you sir, obviously don't even know how to spell your own name. You were probably just too lazy to write S-t-e-v-e-n in kindergarten. But, even though I don’t know you, I am going to tell you something mister. I WAS going to give away ONE MILLION DOLLARS to a random commenter on this blog, but unfortunately I invested with Bernie Madoff in those halcyon days of yesteryear before the vultures started circling and lost my fortune. Now I am living on expired Cheez Whiz and wrinkled apples.
When I get my strength back, I’m going to think of something to give you, LIKE MAYBE A KNUCKLE SANDWICH.
But, to other readers who wear deodorant and leave nice comments, I am going to close my eyes and stab at the computer with my well manicured right pointer finger, guided by the force—and pick a name. The person belonging to said name will receive a poem composed by Miss Rhoda Peters in his or her honor. Trust me; it will be better than a million dollars. Okay, so it will not be better than a million dollars, but look up at those circling vultures and count your blessings.