Dear Mr. Harpman:

Please consider this my sincere, and completely voluntary, letter of recommendation for Robot Model TX-9, regarding its application for the position of floor manager at Kosmotronics’ Planet Mars Fabrication Facility. Let me once again assure you that this letter is written of my own volition, and I am currently in no danger of being incinerated or reduced to a puddle of denatured proteins by TX-9. TX-9, however, could as easily do that to a man as a ground squirrel if it is a qualification you desire. Really, it would be no trouble at all.

Our culture has a love-hate relationship with commercials. They run the gamut from catchy to annoying to sexy to meme-tastic. Some however, are just so mind-numbly insipid, that they go down in infamy, and end up on blogs devoted to asinine advertising. Thankfully I have traded in my cable (and lost the cable companies firm

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You can’t have a cupcake shop in a coop in the backyard, but you can have chickens.

You know you’re getting old when you wake up one day and you have no hair on your feet. One of the very first signs of aging is when you come home and find fifty pink flamingoes on your lawn, and you’re not even Italian. When you go to write a singles ad, and all you can come up with is, “Man with no future seeks woman with no past.”

You are old.

Dear B.,

Howdy, amigo, from Crawford, TX. I know you’re busy, which is why I’m writin you this letter and havin Laura scan it into the computer so I can send it by email, and then you can read it on your Blackberrypod while you’re takin a cigarette break or catchin your breath between basketball games or I don’t know. But however it gets there, I hope it gets there if it can (This Reader’s Digest compilation CD of great love songs that Laura sent away for just came in. LOVE it.) And, also, too, I hope this reaches you in well health. Seems like I’ve been hearin a lot about you and health in the news lately. I worry about you, B.