Once Again, Fuck You

Because I hate each and every one of you, you're getting a rerun, this one from October of 2003. Choke on it, creeps.

October 6

Here is an e-mail I just sent (at 5:30 am, PST, or PDT, or whatever) in response to the come-on of a Nigerian con artist who calls herself (himself?) Faith Nkese:

I have a counter-proposal: you send me $750,000 US immediately and sign over your power of attorney to me, which will allow me to purchase a stake in a copper mine, 100% in your name. Following that, you will meet me in Nassau, Bahamas, for a week's vacation of drinking daiquiris in the sun and making love 'til the dawn in the comfort and privacy of our shabby motel room. In the morning I will wake up to find you sitting at the foot of the bed, crying softly into your hands. When I follow by soothing and consoling you, you will explain that I was your first, that you were saving yourself for "Mr. Right." When I ask, "But, couldn't I be Mr. Right?" you will start sobbing and confess that the reason you are crying is that you are afraid that I don't feel the same way you do. I gaze into your liquid eyes, lovingly, longingly. And then I kiss you, a kiss like you've never experienced, a kiss that can move mountains and boil the sea.

The rest of the week is bliss, greater than we've ever known and greater than we will ever know again. We explore each other's bodies like horny archaeologists, hungrily searching every square centimeter, as if we are hoping to find decent-sized fragments of prehistoric earthenware in the gross folds of our thick, sweaty flesh. And we will love. We will love in every way it is possible to love. We will love till the tundra turns to veldt and the chickens come home to roost. We will love like eternity is but a second ticking away (slowly, so slowly) on a ticking clock. We will love 'til horses go, "meow" and rabbits go, "woof." We will love like it's double overtime and this one's for all the marbles. We will love like two wayward seamen, courting the dawn and feeling twice the wiser for it. We will love 'til tomorrow turns into yesterday, then back again to tomorrow. We will love until we get so dehydrated that I cannot sit up and your pussy is beginning to fall off. We will love until your pussy has fallen completely off, and then for just a little while longer. And then I will leave you. I mean, I'm all for women's rights and all that, but you have to admit a woman's not worth all that much to a man if she doesn't have a vagina. And anyway, you'll be really busy with the copper mine, and I've got my own shit to do. Besides, the mine's in the middle of some barren wasteland in Nevada, and I have ZERO desire to move there. But you may like it. It's not far from this neat artists' community that's sprung up in one of the towns there over the last ten-fifteen years. You know, they've got some neat shops, a lot of handmade faux-Native American art and stuff. I don't really know if that's your thing (I have you pegged as liking more the Pennsylvania Dutch kind of decor, big stone jugs and needlepoint samplers and little rag dolls and such), but a lot of people are really into it, so I figured I'd mention it. Just a thought.

Anyway, the wife is begging me to come and slip her the high hard one, so I'd better go. It's was nice talking to you. If you're ever up in the Canadian Rockies, please look me up (I'm about two and a half hours from Banff, if you like skiing). Okay, goodbye. Oh, and send me the money immediately, please. A check made out to cash would be ideal, but I also accept money orders and most major credit cards (no Diners' Club, please--I've had a LOT of problems with those people). Okay--geeze, the wife's really hungry for it, it sounds like! She must've been watching that "Walker, Texas Ranger" show again. That show always gets her going, that's for sure! Me, I always liked Scrappy Doo. I don't mean in a sexual way, just he's my favorite thing to watch on TV. Really spunky, that Scrappy Doo. Kind of the personification of spunk, really. Well, not really, 'cause he's not a person, but, I don't know, the "dogification" or something. Caninification? Well, whatever, either way, the point is that I get sexually aroused by watching the exploits of a cartoon puppy. God, that looks so fucked up, seeing it there on the screen, all typed out like that. Shit. Damn, I think I really may have a problem. This is... this is really hitting me hard. What am I supposed to do? What life can I hope to lead now? I'm not fit to live in a world where there are other people who might become soiled by my wanton depravity. Would God even want me to live?

Yes he would. Because he's good. It's understood. That he is good. The way he should. Be to uuuuuus. Because God is wonderful. Oh so wonderful. God is wonderfulous. Yes, I think that just 'bout settles it.

Okay, okay, enough shilly shallying--I love you and I want you to be my bride.

Shhh, shhhh. You don't have to decide now. Think it over. What's important to me is that you make the choice that will make you happiest, for the short term and over the course of your life. Too many relationships have been ruined by the man demanding an immediate answer to his marriage proposal. My uncle, the famous actor Tom Bosley, had a friend who pressured his girlfriend into marrying him. Two months later, a week into the their marriage, the wife killed the husband by forcing him to eat a roll of paper towels. And the name of that couple?

That's right. Bess and Harry Truman.

And that, my friend, is the rest of the story.

Good-day.

Yours,

Blind Country Music Legend, Ronnie Milsap