For those of you who don't follow my twitter feed, I have a new feature coming late tonight or tomorrow for A/V ninjas and movie fans.

But this isn't that.

It's something else.

Something wonderful.

While "going through the attic" the other day, I discovered some old letters between a somewhat-British relative of mine and his best-friend. I found them to be quite compelling. I have transcribed them here so you can see what life was like in the time period in which these letters were written. Historians have been unable to figure out exactly when that was.
--

Dear Archibald,

This city is pretty sweet sometimes. I don't know if you got this going on down there in KS, but here (for some reason) women feel compelled to wear short skirts and tall boots even when it's windy and in the 40's. It's pretty great. My eyes feast like a sultan on treasures of flesh.

If I ever dress to look "hip" at the expense of my general well-being, even if it's something as mild as "being cold for a little while" punch me in the throat. However, if I'm doing it to impress a girl, use your best judgment and evaluate on a case-by-case basis.

Sincerely,
Mulfrand Cancerspot

--

Dear Mulfrand,

In the event of a health-appearance ratio dilemma, I assure you that all variables will be dutifully considered prior to an throat to fist interaction. That being said, the following exclusions do, and shall forever, apply: Half-tucked in shirts, white pants, loafers and socks, sunglasses from Back to the Future II, "skinny" jeans, and the color pink. Violations of such will result in immediate Road House-style Adam's apple removal.

Warmly,
Archibald

--

Now See Here Archie,

With reference to your letter of 11 November, I must take exception with your list. Loafers are the shoe of choice for a gentleman of leisure such as myself. However, if said loafers contain a combination of the colors blue and white, or any flamboyantly-named relatives of either, then I encourage the throat-lashing.

This Armistice Day has brought to mind memories of our cantankerous old friend First Lieutenant Manwig Blotch. I recall fondly the stories he told us about clandestine meetings with enemy agents during the Franco-American War, as well as the mighty erections he'd sprout when regaling us with tales of battlefields bloody. The man loved war. It's only a shame he couldn't die bayonet-deep in some [REDACTED] like he always wanted. I shall buy a poppy in his name, may he rest in piece.

Gloriously,
Mulfrand

--

Mully,

Verily, Manwig was a patriot. Though I fondly recall that whilst he was defending the crown from foreign invaders on their sovereign soil before they had the notion of invading, his beautiful lass Margaret Butterfield was putting up a weak defense of her glory. Often bravely facing two to three sailors, not unlike ourselves, at a time. unfortunately, for being the possessor of such a potent pot of honey, her culinary skills left much to be desired and simultaneously explained the gaunt appearance of our fallen comrade.

Cordially,
Archie

--

Archface,

A finer woman than Maggie Butterfield I never met. Couldn't cook, couldn't carry a tune but so sure of hand that even the stead-fastest of men would be firing off great, steaming gouts of ejaculate like German anti-aircraft guns in a minutes time. I've never told another soul this, but I had an encounter with her once during the Embossing Festival. As you know, we had all gathered at Senõr Mantecada Fresa's estate in Barcelona. On the first night of the festival, during The Dinner of St. Bartimus we shared a look, just a look, and I came in my trousers. I played it off as a cough, but the fact is no man could corral the demon in his pants around that girl.

'Twas a sad day when she met her end. When that volcano she fell in erupted, as sure as eggs is eggs she had died the way she lived.

Sulkingly,
Mulfrand

--

That's all the letters I've been able to find so far, but I'll keep you updated.

click to enlarge

via

1. The skin does not just come off by itself. That shit is like attached with film or something.

2. There's gross shit inside it.

3. The neck protrusion invites the imagination to picture the poor bird getting
defeathered and beheaded, then stuffed in plastic wrap while the head lay on the ground, locked in a silent scream.

4. Even if you wear latex gloves with grippy things that shit is still slippery.

5. If you prepare it wearing ONLY latex gloves with grippy things be sure and draw your blinds.

6. I need a real knife.

7. If you don't give yourself enough time to prepare you'll likely miss your bus and subsequently your train forcing you to drive to work with expired plates, unless the bus is running late, then you will find that you hurried for no reason and end up sweaty and smelling like dill. Admittedly there are worse things to smell like.

8. You get hand cramps when you do shit like wear latex gloves and skin a chicken.

I'm sure there are more, but I can't remember them right now.

I had this conversation with Grant later on:

Grant: "I just had to lay the guitar hero smack down for the United Way. Now my hand hurts."

Me: "My hand hurts too, but because I had to skin a chicken at 6:30."

Grant: "Is that a masturbation joke?"

Me: "I wish."

Grant: "So you were actually removing the skin from a chicken?"

Me: "Yes."

-

And then I explained to him how I prepared it; which was:

1 whole chicken, skinned, gross shit removed, place in slow cooker, dry rub with cayenne pepper, dump on jerk marinade, cook for 8-10 hours. Enjoy with steamed peas and a frosty mug of low-sodium V8.

Mine was a smaller chicken so 8.5 hours ended up being too much and it was over cooked, but there you go, lesson learned. Still tasty.

I didn't take picture because it was hella gross and I was running late.

Everyone wants a new post, but I think I've forgotten how to properly blog. Like how a coma patient's muscles begin to atrophy immediately, I've been writing in 140 character or less bursts for too long and I can't write an extended post worth a damn.

I love Twitter, I think it's great. The audio, photo and video apps for the iPhone make it an all-around more attractive solution than updating a clunky, HTML-ridden blog constantly. However, given that it's so user-friendly, it has drawn out all of the stupid people in the world and given them a voice and that's something that should be confined to the realm of Reality TV. Seriously, there are so many fuck-ignorant people on Twitter that, with each passing day, I become more convinced that stupid is, in fact, an epidemic.

And who knows, maybe there were that many stupid people on Blogspot, LJ and the like but they weren't aggregated and were therefore less visible. But I don't think that's true. You have to have a modicum of intelligence to run a blog (or the means to outsource the job), using a host for your photos and vids, knowing the HTML to place the links, creating scrollable menus and shit like that. And while the smallest amount of tech savvy may not make a person any less ignorant it does mean that they at least have the capability of learning.

If anything, Twitter encourages us to think as little as possible, do as little as possible and that is right up most people's alley, apparently. It even affects someone as handsome and smart as me. My tweets usually consist of a quotes from TV shows that I think are funny, or commentary on some sporting event, and I guess that annoys some people.

But, as awful as Twitter can be, it's one of the tools I use to cling to the friends I made in the past using this here blog. We've all lost touch with so many of the people that we knew in the halcyon days of 3 to 4 years ago, but (hopefully) managed to hold on to those that were dearest us. Twitter Direct Messages are basically the only way Anthony and I talk anymore, so, yeah, I use Twitter and Facebook and whatever else I can to keep in touch with the awesome people that I've met. And you should do the same. You should do more, actually. I'm really not that good of friend.

I've actually heard stories of some people who wanted to preserve those bonds of friendship so desperately that they moved less than a mile away from their new friends, imposed themselves during the Thanksgiving holiday and even tricked others into giving them jobs that they probably don't deserve. Which sounds like the machinations of a crazy person if you ask me.

The point is, our friends aren't just the people who live near us, or that we met at school anymore. They're all over the world, and thousands of miles and several timezones are no reason not to keep in touch. Holler at your boy, is what I'm saying.

Anyway, god bless all of you weirdos.

It's my smelly sister's dumb birthday today!