|Subj: a writing machine I suppose...
Date: 11/9/2004 11:10:47 PM Eastern Standard Time
To whom it may or may not concern:
I'm not sure if this is Kurt Vonnegut or if he will actually ever read this. Don't get me wrong, I'm quite sure he is capable of reading. I don't doubt his reading ability in the slightest. I'm sure he must read lots of things. Warning labels. Abridged bibles. Stupid fan letters. Well maybe not the latter two, but nonetheless I believe he could read stupid fan letters if he wants to. I suppose a writer should be able to read, right? You wouldn't believe me if I told you, but as of yore I have been fancying myself a teeny tad itty-bitty bit of a writer as well. Basically, lately I've taken to writing letters. Letters much like this one I suppose. Anyway, first I wrote to the person that hires interns for MTV. They didn't respond. I can't say I blame them after I called them a slave driver and accused them of decimating the job market. So, I wrote to the President of the US of A. He didn't respond either. A computer responded and that computer told me that Mr. Bush is far too important to actually read his email. This only goes to further my belief that much like most important people, he is illiterate. Anyway, any person with anything better to do would have quit there with this whole letter thing while they were still ahead I suppose. Fortunately, I'm quite unemployed at the moment and since letters are free and words are free and emails are free, I continued blindly forward chasing my own tail as I spun them for my own amusement and what not. Bob Kerrey then got an email. I saw him on TV and remembered he's the president of my school. I like him better than my other president. That's what I told him. He never responded. He must be busy raising my tuition. Anyway, I then wrote to Bill O'Reilly. I figured I couldn't be any less intelligent than any of the other people that send him letters. Maybe a little less coherent. Maybe. I could understand if he found my line of reasoning a millimeter short of coherent. I accused him of throwing french fries and instigating knife fights at three in the morning while we all hug and make-up on the metaphorical F-Train of life. Maybe he didn't get it. Maybe that's why he didn't respond. Maybe. But lets get on with the story, shall we? So, I wrote to Bono, that guy from that band U2, and then I realized I don't have his email address. So I summarized the letter I wrote to Bono in another letter I then preceded to send to one of the Senator's from North Dakota. Really, I didn't have much desire to inform him about what I would have informed Bono about. Really, I just used the opportunity created by that letter to segue into the fact that I don't believe North Dakota exists. Chances are my writing will once again not warrant a response. This brings me to the point of this letter. There really isn't one since I doubt Kurt Vonnegut will read this, let alone even respond. All the same, it still beats writing to myself. Actually, the reason I wrote to you is because when I asked my roommate and his girlfriend if they knew the email of any important people, my roommate's girlfriend told me she had your email address. However, once she realized I actually wanted the email address to actually send you an email, she wouldn't tell me what it was. Serves me right for making the mistake of actually telling the truth about my desire to in some way digitally touch the chrome plating of celebrity with my utter nonsense. Does that make any sense? Sometimes I ask myself. I never really answer, but it never hurts to ask. Anyway, after she wouldn't give me your email address I decided to just write to you on my own. I don't suppose this actually your email address, unless you are Joe, then in which case it may be. Anyway, if you are Joe and not Kurt, please pass this along. This message isn't meant for you. Not that it really makes much a of difference who reads it I suppose. Well, Breakfast of Champions wasn't bad.