Cleaning Out The Mailbox

My mailbox actually gives people rabies. That's why I don't get mail any more. That, and the fact that I tackled the mail lady once in the nude.My mailbox actually gives people rabies. That's why I don't get mail any more. That, and the fact that I tackled the mail lady once in the nude.

As you can probably imagine, my inbox is a pretty weird place. Spam, pleas for me to provide the antidote, cease and desist orders from Kenny Loggins’ lawyer… It all piles up until I can’t ignore it any more, and then I delete it all because answering it would eat into my valuable personal time, and then when would I lurk behind the lingerie department at Goodwill?

Speaking of Goodwill, a long time ago I wrote about the band I was in during my drug-infested college years: Bonehead. One of the funny ideas we had was to play a show wearing matching smoking jackets. I don’t know why we thought would be funny, now that I think about it, and can only imagine that smoking hash might have had something to do with it. Anyway, not having the faintest idea where to get a smoking jacket, we went to Goodwill on the grounds that it was close, cheap, and if any place were to stock ridiculous clothing that was last popular in the 50’s, Goodwill was it.

And we were right, we quickly found four identical smoking jackets which excited us until we realized that they cost $150 a piece. You have to wonder who Goodwill thought was going to buy these things. “Hey Frank, what kinda price should I put on these smoking jackets?”

“Well, if Hugh Hefner comes in here on a Robitussin bender, he might buy them. What the hell? $150.”

“Ok, I’ll put them next to the Zoot Suits.”

I blame hipsters. Hipsters get their hands on the stupidest shit and drag it kicking and screaming back into the mainstream. If you see someone dancing the Charleston on top of a flagpole, it will be a hipster and you will be morally obligated to shoot him in the face.

Remember when swing dancing briefly made a comeback in the 90’s? Hipsters were responsible for that, and I blame them for what happened: I was with a girl at this bar in Tucson, and they started playing swing music which cleared the dance floor because, really, who the fuck is going to do that in public? Well, my girlfriend and I were going to because she was shitfaced and thought it would be fun. Five minutes later we were asked to leave, apparently on the grounds that anyone stupid enough to attempt swing dancing with no experience in front of total strangers had to be flirting with alcohol poisoning.

Fucking hipsters

Fucking hipsters

Where was I? Oh yeah, cleaning out my mailbox. This tip comes from an anonymous reader who apparently doesn’t want his or her name associated with the foul ramblings and incessant gibberish on this site. Smart move, Anonymous. Look what happened to Anthony Weiner. Anyway, Anonymous wants us all to know that it is most certainly not safe to go swimming in Sweden if you are a man:

Swedish Men Told To Beware Testicle-Munching Fish

I have to admit, I’m surprised that this is a problem in Sweden. When you think of genital-eating fauna, you generally think of South America, or possibly Australia, where every creature is designed to kill you, including chickens. Especially chickens. Australian Death Chickens are responsible for over 40,000 deaths a week in Australia. Did you know that? I didn’t, and I just made it up. That’s how little known that fact is, but it’s in writing on the internet now, and so it’s true.

But Sweden? I’d have guessed that the fish would be doling out massages before I guessed they’d be after my apple-bag. Fortunately, if you get your boys nibbled off, you’re in Sweden, so you’re covered for medical expenses because Sweden’s progressive health care system clearly states that:

Om ditt könsorgan blir biten av av fisk, behöver du inte jobba längre. Dessutom är Kenny Loggins en skitstövel.

Which roughly translates to, “If your wobblies get eaten by sardines, you get many Kronas,” which I think means that they pay you for getting your balls eaten by wildlife. Sweden is a very progressive, and profoundly retarded country.

Also in my inbox, a picture of a dog doing drugs, courtesy of Jerry, who I just ratted out by calling the DEA and Bob Barker:

Jerry claims this is a chewy bone. Right, Jerry.

Jerry claims this is a chewy bone. Right, Jerry.

I think this is a fantastic photo, and I’d like to see more of them. So if you have a picture of a Terrier on PCP, send it in. I mean the picture. Send the picture in. Also, some PCP would be nice.

Back to my inbox… Oh, look! Unsolicited emails! Yay!

From: Michelle Thomas
Subject: Content Proposal for Dogs On Drugs
Date: September 18th, 2103 11:24 AM
To: Greg


My name is Michelle and I was hoping we could help each other out. I wanted to get your opinion on an infographic that we have going out right now on finding your perfect hair color based on your eye color and skin tone.

(link to infographic redacted)

It is very informational and a great resource for choosing your hair color. This has already been pinned on Pinterest over 2000 times so I was hoping you would want to share it with your viewers. Hopefully they will share your site and the infographic brings you traffic for a long time to come. Let me know what you think of it. I appreciate your time.

Here is a preview of the infographic:

(preview of infographic redacted)

Please let me know if this interests you. Also, if you have any questions at all please do not hesitate to ask.

Thank You,
Michelle Thomas

Golly, it sure was nice of Michelle to go out of her way like that just to ask my opinion!

From: Greg
Subject: I have pictures of you playing with yourself, Michelle
Date: September 23rd, 2013 7:45 PM
To: Michelle Thomas

Hi Michelle,

Thanks for taking the time to write! I will gladly give you my opinion on your infographic.

One time, when I was in college, a roommate of mine who worked as an orderly at a local hospital, told me about a young retarded woman who came into the ER with severe abdominal cramping. After giving her a routine X-ray, the hospital staff noticed a large mass and asked the patient if she’d been inserting anything inside of herself lately.

It turns out that the young retarded woman had put a largish potato in her vagina, presumably for kicks, or maybe she was just from Idaho or something. I dunno. And once she’d put it in there, she was afraid to tell anyone about it, and so the potato languished. When they went to finally remove the potato, it was covered in a slimy mold-like substance that smelled so bad that it caused a doctor to vomit and a nurse to faint outright.

I would rather make potato salad out of that particular potato and eat it than look at your infographic again, that’s how terrible it is.

Did that help? Do you have any other infographics you need opinions on? I’d look forward to seeing some, preferably something involving Dick Van Dyke fisting game hens. I’ve got a rather unique fetish, you see.


Kennel Master,
Dogs on Drugs

I should point out that as far as I was ever able to tell, the story about the tuber loving lass was untrue, a case of an endless game of hospital telephone which probably started off with a doctor mentioning that he was hungry for french fries.

Speaking of the game telephone, I told this story to my daughter the other day, albeit a radically cleaned-up version: When I was a sophomore in high school, I took one of the most worthless classes I’ve ever taken in my life: Communications. Teaching communication to teenagers is like teaching swimming to fish, or being a douchebag to Kenny Loggins. Unnecessary.

It didn’t help that the class was chock full of smartasses such as myself, the teacher was in her early twenties and carried no authority whatsoever, and tried to make up for that by being strict. And by strict, I mean she yelled at us and told us to go to the office, and we laughed at her and refused. You show weakness in front of high school students, and they will eat you for fucking lunch. One classmate noted that she seemed tense and helpfully offered to lay her down on her desk right then and there to give her a “fun time, you know what I’m sayin’?”.

Alas, she did not know what he was sayin'.

Alas, she did not know what he was sayin’.

One day, the teacher, whom I’ll call Ms. Zelke, tried to teach us how communications get garbled by playing the game of telephone in class. “This will be fun!” she said as she leaned close to the first person in line and whispered a secret phrase.

After a few minutes, and a lot of giggling, the person next to me leaned close and whispered, “Ms. Zelke is a fucking bitch, but if you give her $20, she’ll let you cum on her tits,” which I dutifully repeated to the next person in line.

Needless to say, everyone anxiously awaited what the last person in line was going to say out loud to the class. The last person in line, as luck would have it, was a rather unpopular kid named Scott who wanted nothing more than to be accepted by a room full of hormonal lunatics, and so when Ms. Zelke asked him to say out loud what he had heard, he said very loudly, “Ms. Zelke is a fucking bitch, but if you give her $20, she’ll let you cum on her tits.”

The room was silent for an awful second, and then all hell broke loose. The ones who had heard (and repeated) the modified phrase laughed because we could not believe Scott had actually said that out loud. The other half of the room exploded into laughter because, well, because it was just plain fucking hilarious.

Fuming, Ms. Zelke went backwards through the line asking each individual person what they had heard. She got to me, and I repeated the party line: “That’s what I heard.” Finally it got to the person that everyone figured was the prime suspect, a friend of mine named Steve.

“That’s what I heard,” he said, only to be immediately interrupted by the honor student on his right.

“That’s not what I said at all! I said, ‘There’s a purple monkey on the football field.'”

Once again, the room descended into an eery silence with all eyes on Steve who calmly said, “Wow. I really need to get my hearing checked.”

After class, as Steve was confronting the honor student who ratted him out, he said, “You idiot! If we’d all stuck to the story, we could’ve blamed it all on Ms. Zelke!” Steve, as you can guess, was a tremendously funny guy, which made it all the more baffling when he joined the Marine Corps a few years later.

“How’s Steve making out in the Corps?” I asked his sister a year or two after he’d enlisted.

“He’s still the same old Steve, only now he can do a million pushups.”

All right, focus Greg! One last email to deal with, and you can go back to sniffing glue.

From: Mike Thomas
Subject: Celebrity Garages Infographic for Dogs On Drugs
Date: September 19th, 2103 11:23 AM
To: Greg

Hey there,

My name is Mike and I was hoping we could work together on a project, as well as some in the future. Currently we have an awesome infographic on the cars and garages of celebrities and the rich, which you can see below:

(link to infographic redacted)

I would really like to know your input on the graphic. It is definitely something that your viewers would like to see on your site. The graphic will get the commenting on your site as well as sharing your site socially. It will help to bring traffic to your site and improve some rankings as Google loves great content like this.

While you can easily post the infographic by copying and pasting the text above it, due to recent changes by Google we would prefer to also get an editorial link in an intro paragraph. If you would like I could write an original intro paragraph for it, or if you prefer to do it and give your opinion on it and include a link to it that would be even better!

If you have any questions or if I can return the favor in any way please let me know. Appreciate your time and look forward to working with you in the future.


Mike Thomas

Just before I answered the email, I noticed the common last name and that he had the same physical address as our last correspondent, Michelle.

From: Greg
Subject: I have pictures of Michelle playing with herself, Mike
Date: September 23rd, 2103 8:10 PM
To: Mike Thomas

Hi Mike,

I just got done responding to another email just like this, from Michelle Thomas at the same address! Small world, huh? Anyway, I just belched out some foul story involving a mentally handicapped woman shoving a potato in her snatch because that’s how I roll these days, Mike. My therapist says that it’s a vast improvement and soon I’ll have reached a level of discourse deemed socially acceptable enough that I can begin to hang out with carnies. You can imagine my excitement.

Anyway, I wanted to speak to you about your infographic Mike, but more still about your request. Do you really send random emails to people across the country asking for their opinion of your infographic? I mean, do you suffer from low self-esteem or something? It’s nice, Mike. It’s a nice infographic. Very pretty. You don’t need to demean yourself like this, Mike. Your infographics are perfectly fine. You are perfectly fine, and I don’t care what Michelle says about that bed-wetting thing: You are a decent and fine person, Mike. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.


Kennel Master,
Dogs on Drugs

This inbox is clean!

This inbox is clean!