June 21, 2012


You know what's worse than living in the city during a heatwave? Living in the city during a heatwave WHILE having problems with your pen pal. Seriously man, I don't need this, I got stuff on my mind. Do you know how many farmer's markets have begun operating over the last few weeks? I got so many salad variations dancin' in my head that just the other day I accidentally told my financial adviser to move my investments toward radishes and balsamic vinaigrettes.

Anyway, the trouble started a couple weeks back when Amil, my pen pal of 17 years, wrote me this uncharacteristically brief letter:

Normally, when I get a letter from Amil, I go to my favourite chair, grab a two-litre bottle of Canada Dry and a handful of arugula, and I relax. I spend hours mulling over his wisdom, humour and stories of sucking oil straight out of the ground through a bendy straw that's then used as fuel for the area's famous fire breathing goats. I look forward to these readings almost as much as I love fresh radicchio or looking for defects in designer clothes at Winners.

I called up Amil's papa and asked him just what in the hell was going on, and he said some missionaries had come by their pit and handed out new computers and back issues of George Magazine. He said Amil had fallen in love with technology and had even started downloading as many pictures of umbrellas as he could find (in his culture they call umbrellas God's Hats). It was looking like this was going to be an uphill battle. 

The thing is, I can't just insert Amil into my daily Internet routine, he won't fit. I use the Internet to rid myself of emotion, not fill myself up with it. Anyway, I wanted to give Amil a taste of what email is all about, a real dose of reality, so the first one I sent him is similar to what I'd write to my local pals:

yo amil, sick weather in T-Dot this weekend, im goin to the jays probably they're playng baltimore. you'd love baseball, it's a lot like poker hahahahahahahah

- glenn

Keep in mind he's used to well-written, expressive letters from me. I also add personal touches such as adding banana stickers, which he still thinks is my family's seal. It got so far that I had to explain how we changed our name from Dole to Del Monte when my sister, the Princess, decided to marry a strawberry Duke. I hate to lie but this guy doesn't even know what a Stop Sign is, so no big deal.

Anyway, he responded with this:

lol dis..!!$$ getmoney getmoney hehe jus suw mor girlz on camputa. $$$$exyyyyyyyyyyy u kno? how do i get a # from 1? where dey fones at??? hollllllllllla jus lirned about MIA mu$ic wholy sh!t
- Fonz

Looks like the little bastard has given himself a new nickname. If everyone gave themselves a nickname there's be thousands of guys named Chard walking around.

So I can either cut him off completely, or keep this garbage up. The problem is, if I cease correspondence I will no longer accumulate Big Brother credits, which I'm planning to put toward this Fabergé Egg that was designed by Funny Car legend John Force. Maybe I'll just send him a damn X-Box. Better yet, a pallet of fresh Romaine.

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