Last night, two colleagues discovered that I’m kind of annoying unique & charming when I order at restaurants. I can’t help it… I always feel as though the waiter has hidden information that could mean the difference between the best meal of my life and the worst.
Anyway, long story short is… I’m a little crazy. A fact driven home by this site Mike sent me: emails from crazy people.
Problem is, the first example I read was this one. And I was totally on the side of the writer:
Dear Sir/madam/automated telephone answering service
Having spent the past twenty minutes waiting for someone at Leith police
station to pick up a telephone I have decided to abandon the idea and
try e-mailing you instead. Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass this
meassage on to your colleagues in Leith by means of smoke signal, carrier pigeon or Ouija board.
As I’m writing this e-mail there are eleven failed medical experiments
(I think you call them youths) in West Cromwell Street which is just off
Commercial Street in Leith . Six of them seem happy enough to play a game
which involves kicking a football against an iron gate with the force of
a meteorite. This causes an earth shattering CLANG! which rings throughout
the entire building. This game is now in it’s third week and as I am
unsure how the scoring sytem works, I have no idea if it will end any time
The remaining five walking abortions are happily rummaging through several
bags of rubbish and items of furniture that someone has so thoughtfully
dumped beside the wheelie bins. One of them has found a saw and is
setting about a discarded chair like a beaver on speed. I fear that it’s only a
matter of time before they turn their limited attention to the bottle of
calor gas that is lying on it’s side between the two bins. If they could
be relied on to only blow their own arms and legs off then I would happily
leave them to it. I would even go so far as to lend them the matches.
Unfortuneatly they are far more likely to blow up half the street with
Them and I’ve just finished decorating the kitchen.
What I suggest is this. after replying to this e-mail with worthless
assurances that the matter is being looked into and will be dealt with,
why not leave it until the one night of the year (probably bath night) when
there are no mutants around then drive up the street in a panda car
before doing a three point turn and disappearing again. This will of course
serve no other purpose than to remind us what policemen actually look like.
I trust that when I take a clawhammer to the skull of one of these
throwbacks you’ll do me the same courtesy of giving me a four month head
start before coming to arrest me.
I remain sir, your obedient servant
You should read the whole exchange. And as a note, further exploration of the site has put me on the side of the non-crazies.