Tuesday, May 13th, 2003
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Currently, I'm in the process of writing what seems to be my longest article ever. I'm also confident that it's going to break my previous record, as far as sexual references are concerned. Anyway, I'm too uncreative to finish it at the moment.

With that said, I've decided to delve into the old Liquid Fluff mail bag and post some stuff from ages ago. Veteran fans may recall the email I received from Mike Temmerman. Being the antagonistic prick that I am, I quickly belted out a reply and sent it off to him. It turned out that, surprisingly, Mike was actually a real person, and not the email spambot that I originally thought he might be. He ended up sending me further tidings of good will and shit, and I reciprocated with more fucked up jibba' jabba'.

First up, here's what our beloved frat boy Mikey had to say:

Thank you for your reply. I know that not everybody's New Year will be happy, but at least they cannot take away our wishes.

Regards,

Mike

Well, you have to admit that he's a pleasant fellow at least, if not a major fucking pansy. Here was my hastily cooked up and highly nonsensical reply:

Yo Mike,

Thank you for replying to my reply. An email from you is always a blindingly bright ray of sunshine on an otherwise hellish day!

How are you? I am fine. I woke up with a big smile on my face this morning, but then I broke down into tears, because I remembered that my girlfriend left me, and my dog ruined my valuable comic book collection, before killing himself (I'm now convinced that his messy flirtation with gravity was intentional).

Anyway, after I got up and drank a case of Mike's Hard Lemonade(LOL, Did You Invent That?!), I grabbed my trusty spatula, and went outside to scrape my dog's remains off the sidewalk. Let me tell you, the insides of a Boston Terrier look a hell of a lot different than the outsides do. You know what I mean, dawg? ROFLOL!!1!

Oh, I have another bit of sad news. Apparently my sister has contracted a vicious case of herpes. In fact, the doctor she went to (he's one of those gyronomalogists), said it's behaving more like an ebola virus infection. Nasty, huh?

Well, I hope you're scholarly pursuits are going well, and I pray nightly that your finacial woes will vanish. Also, I pray that "Fraggle Rock" will be put back on television.

Peace Out Bro,

Jasie

I sent that one off back at the beginning of January this year, and ol' Mikey has yet to reply. Perhaps his common sense kicked in, and he realized that somebody was screwing with him via email correspondence. However, I think it's more likely that he just didn't gather the money he needed with his email scam, got booted out of college, and ended up hanging himself in his parents' basement with some Lisa Loeb music playing in the background. Oh well, such is the price of academic excellence. Now go away.

Friday, May 9th, 2003
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Yesterday, I had originally intended to bang out another of my prize-winning articles in order to show you, my sorry excuse for an audience, that I was still alive. Alas, before I could get to work ranting about why I hate whatever nationality that I hate this week, I found myself under attack. Not by assault rifle toting hooligans, as one might imagine when I say the words "under attack". Rather, I was being (non-sexually) molested by the very weather itself!

As you may or may not know, I moved down to Oklahoma a few months ago. Now, someone neglected to mention to me that the state of Oklahoma is smack dab in the middle of a hellish stretch of wasteland lovingly called, "Tornado Alley". Or at the very least, if they did mention it, I didn't hear them because I was too busy quoting lines from Indiana Jones movies and/or out back taking a piss at the time. Well, I had my first real taste of what life is like when you're living in a fucking deathtrap finally, yesterday evening. And guess what: you get to read it! Booyah!

Anyway, there I was happily munching away on a Bagel Dog and trying to devise clever new ways to make fun of Christians, when my ears were assailed by verbal warnings from my local TV weatherman. Apparently the top secret Russian weather-control device A.S.S. (Atmospheric Sabotage System) was up and running, and for it's first field test they were going to bitch slap a large portion of Oklahoma with some seriously testicle-rattling gusts of wind. To make a long story short, Jennifer and I had to abandon our apartment (which, because it's on the second floor of our building, takes on a lot of the aspects of a tomb during inclimate weather) and go to the nearest safe place - the local mall! We must've spent at least an hour there in the mall arcade, pumping quarters into an old Terminator 2 arcade machine (the one with the nifty plastic sub machineguns). And the whole time I was mowing down T-800 endoskeletons, I was imaginging that they were the various Russian political figures responsible for the creation of that filthy black ops weather machine. Eventually, the nasty Russians deactivated their shitty weather device, and I was able to go home, and resume playing Monkey Island computer games.

In closing, I would like to say three things: First, I humbly apologize for forcing you to read this rambling narrative. Secondly, I would like to say, "Fuck you, Boris. I'm on to your twisted agenda. Let's see how well that weather machine works when it's stuffed up your bloated commie ass". Lastly, I'd like to say "Hi" to my mom, and remind her that since I'm not dead yet, she needs to keep sending me money.