#1
Posted: 9/22/05 at 7:18pm
Hello, my name is Vlad F. Atigue. I suffer from seventeen rare and deadly diseases. Depending on which disease the doctor is treating, I’ll either die in 8 minutes or in 2029. My mother hates me, my father ran away to join the circus and my siblings were sent to foster homes so they wouldn’t have to live with me. I have been fired from every job I’ve ever had and I’ve never had sex because I have a fear of being killed by anal firecrackers.
So you can imagine that I am not happy about the guilt I feel because I didn’t send 500 billion bucking f**** to the kid whose grandmother died of illiteracy, the dog who lost his leg in battle and gets around on a jury-rigged go-kart, the guy with a bad case of creeping penile dysphasia, or the 4 year old who got lung cancer from the second hand smoke she inhaled while being held captive by four fat guys smoking Tipperillos, and spent nearly a month in the abandoned septic tank of a chemical factory. Nope. She won’t get my 6 f***** 5 cents every time you forward a copy of my email. Cuz I’m not playing.
I don’t believe that Bill Gates will send me $1000 just for sending him an email. I don’t even believe there IS a Bill gates. And, OOOH lookie here! This one says that if I scroll down the page, and make a wish on the shamrock in the next five minutes, I’ll get to screw every twink in the next issue of GQ.
OK, so maybe 100 leprechauns will sneak into my modest boudoir while I am sleeping and beat me senseless with a frozen package of Jimmy Dean Sausages, but I’M NOT PLAYING. Perhaps Joseph, father of Jesus, started this chain letter in 15 B.C. by jotting it on some stone tablets, and maybe you won’t get into the World Book of Records, if I don’t send it on to 500 of my dearest friends. I don’t care. I’M STILL NOT PLAYING!
By the way, I don’t want any more pictures of grandma on a sled, guys bowling with midgets or pictures of ducks chasing a cow to the barn at milking time, nor do I want jokes about traveling salesmen, the guy who left his wife in Hawaii on their 25th wedding anniversary or those hysterical ‘guy walks into a bar’ stories that you always send with four pages of forwarded email addresses attached.
In the future, if you wish to send me mail, make it snail mail, and include a couple of bucks to cure my deadly diseases, get me a job, help me find my long lost father, or get me some action in the sack. It’s your choice. And it’s tax deductible. In the meantime, the puppy on life support, Aunt Ruthie’s gall bladder operation, and the kid with the deformed scrotum will have to fend for themselves. Because, I’M NOT PLAYING!
So you can imagine that I am not happy about the guilt I feel because I didn’t send 500 billion bucking f**** to the kid whose grandmother died of illiteracy, the dog who lost his leg in battle and gets around on a jury-rigged go-kart, the guy with a bad case of creeping penile dysphasia, or the 4 year old who got lung cancer from the second hand smoke she inhaled while being held captive by four fat guys smoking Tipperillos, and spent nearly a month in the abandoned septic tank of a chemical factory. Nope. She won’t get my 6 f***** 5 cents every time you forward a copy of my email. Cuz I’m not playing.
I don’t believe that Bill Gates will send me $1000 just for sending him an email. I don’t even believe there IS a Bill gates. And, OOOH lookie here! This one says that if I scroll down the page, and make a wish on the shamrock in the next five minutes, I’ll get to screw every twink in the next issue of GQ.
OK, so maybe 100 leprechauns will sneak into my modest boudoir while I am sleeping and beat me senseless with a frozen package of Jimmy Dean Sausages, but I’M NOT PLAYING. Perhaps Joseph, father of Jesus, started this chain letter in 15 B.C. by jotting it on some stone tablets, and maybe you won’t get into the World Book of Records, if I don’t send it on to 500 of my dearest friends. I don’t care. I’M STILL NOT PLAYING!
By the way, I don’t want any more pictures of grandma on a sled, guys bowling with midgets or pictures of ducks chasing a cow to the barn at milking time, nor do I want jokes about traveling salesmen, the guy who left his wife in Hawaii on their 25th wedding anniversary or those hysterical ‘guy walks into a bar’ stories that you always send with four pages of forwarded email addresses attached.
In the future, if you wish to send me mail, make it snail mail, and include a couple of bucks to cure my deadly diseases, get me a job, help me find my long lost father, or get me some action in the sack. It’s your choice. And it’s tax deductible. In the meantime, the puppy on life support, Aunt Ruthie’s gall bladder operation, and the kid with the deformed scrotum will have to fend for themselves. Because, I’M NOT PLAYING!
"Always smile at your enemies. It will keep them on their toes"
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