matlock

by Frank Holt, President of the "Matlock" Fan Club

I hope your happy, you bastard. My life wasted because of your goddamn show.
Look at me. I'm a 53-year old virgin. Never went out on a date. Never kissed someone from the opposite sex. Well, except for my mother, but that is, uh, a given. I mean just because I still live with my mother, doesn't mean that I've kissed her on the lips recently.

All these years that I could have gotten my freak on were spent obsessing over your show. I could have bailed on your ass on numerous occasions, but being the loyal soul that I am, I opted to stick by your side. The first case in point was when your first private investigator, that tall dark drink of water Tyler Hudson (played by the scintillating Kene Holliday) left at the end of the second season; the show lost that suspenseful on the edge of your seat feel. Hell, my mother no longer needed to place me in a car seat when I watched your show. Fast forward to the season finale of the sixth season, the last episode on NBC before the program moved to ABC. The episode (known as No. 129 to all of us self-proclaimed Matlockophiliacs), was a two-hour extravaganza entitled "The Suspect." The show focused on a wealthy widow, played by the plodding Brynn Thayer, who tries to put the moves on you. In the ho-hum ending, we find out that she was the killer. Fine. But when the seventh season starts, that broad Brynn Thayer is now playing your "daugher," Leanne McIntyre! What the f@$! is that??? Talk about your second rate casting. To top it all off, she replaces your old daughter, who apparently went off to get hitched in Philadelphia and was never heard from again. C'mon. I'd expect this crap on "Small Wonder" but "Matlock"? Give me a break.

I didn't want to be the president of the fan club. Or the supervi- sing captain of the Matlock web ring. I got dragged in. I wrote an innocent little letter to one of the executive producers of the show, that Jabba the Hut lookalike Fred Silverman, telling him that there should be a Matlock fan club for viewers like myself who enjoyed the show. Bam! He tells me I'm the president of the fan club. Suddenly I'm busting my ass making Matlock buttons, tank tops, and bandanas (just a few of the things you get when you join, at a reasonable annual charge of $11.95, but I digress) out of my mother's garage. Note that I say her garage, for the old bag has made it a point to tell me that I don't own anything in this house. What's that mother? No, this is my Pop Tart. But you already had your half of the box! This is my first one. Put the yardstick down mother! Stop! Stop! Owww! I'm sorry. It'll never happen again. Yes mother, I know: Ignore the demons, ignore the bad. Oh crap, I've been writing all this down!

    As I was saying, I didn't plan on this being a full time thing, but it consumed me. Next thing you know, that dang-blasted Internet took the world by storm, and I make the foolish decision to post a Matlock Fan Club Site to increase membership (it was the first Matlock site on the web, I might add). Fueled by popular demand, I expanded the site. Next thing you know, I'm slaving over my mother's computer 16 hours a day, with only my catheter to console me. I made transcripts of all 178 episodes by hand! I monitored the Matlock chat rooms! I started 97.765% of the threads on the Matlock message board! I collated episodes by numerical order, in alphabetical order, and by the number of times in each episode you utter the word "jackass" (3.4 on average)! I violated every copyright law known to man making cute avatars and creating .wav sound files!
     And what did I get out of all this from you? No letter of thanks. No autographed photo. No package filled to the brim with your fecal matter. Jack squat. I told all the neighborhood kids that you were coming to my birthday party to strum that trademark banjo of yours. You should have seen my mother's basement, Ben. It was an exact replica of the Atlanta court house where you defend your clients. I even dressed up like you so that we could walk around town and everyone would confuse us for twins. I was going to unleash my dead-on impersonation of you (here's a shout-out to my vocal coach Sergio!). But no, you didn't come, and as a result all the parents have placed a restraining order on me forcing me to stay at least 50 yards away from the neighborhood children.
Thanks a lot, bitch.
     I hate you! I hate you and your stupid show! I hate your stupid habits! Why do you always wear

the same stupid blue jacket? Every damn day. Oh wait, I forgot. You do have that stupid white jacket, but you wear that one all the time too, don't you, you cheap Jew? Ok, I apologize about the boneheaded racial
stereotype, but that doesn't mean you aren't a tightwad. And what's the deal with your stupid chili dog fetish? That's all you think about. A clients' life would be on the line, but all you've got your mind on is getting your lips around a plump, juicy wiener. You're a homosexual, aren't you? Look at me when I talk to you dammit! Not that there's anything wrong

with that, but I would have thought that a "defender of truth" would be open about his sexual persuasion. And your such a sore loser, you stupid sore loser! You turn a quaint game like gin into
a self-centered diatribe. Throwing your cards about when you lose! Who the hell do you think you are? Well I know who you are: a major league asshole, that's who you are. It's over between us pal, so look for someone else's life to mooch off of. What's that mother? Matlock is on TBS? That can't be, the alarm on my watch hasn't gone off yet! Oh, there it goes! OK, here I come!