Breaking the Chain

I can't help it. I'm suffering from intense guilt because I refuse to forward 50-billion freaking chain letters sent to me by folks who actually believe if I send them on to everyone I know, a poor little karma-deficient girl in the backwoods of Arkansas with a penis growing out of her forehead will be able to raise enough dough to have it removed before her enterprising redneck parents sell her to a traveling freak show where someday she may escape and become president of the United States.

I'll admit, back in 2002, I did get my hopes up when I got this notice from Bill Gates that he was gonna send me -- and everyone to whom I forwarded "his" email -- a thousand bucks.

Call me gullible, but -- hey -- if I could believe that priests grope innocent children, that corporate CEOs snicker while their hands are working feverishly in my pockets, that pasty draft-dodging cowardly vice presidents beef up calls to send my babies to chemical death, and nobody trusts nobody anymore -- why wouldn't I think the world's richest geek, a scholarly-looking little nerdy high-school dropout who serenely vacuums up the dollars of the universe, would be adverse to sending me a few measly bucks? After all, if anybody in this country could afford to do that it's little Billy Gates for God's sake...

Unfortunately, the only thing that was in the mail back then was hope, and it died there. So I broke the chain.

But I'll admit the old adrenalin started pumping again recently when I was told if I scrolled down while simultaneously closing one eye, making a wish and loudly breaking wind, I'd get a new Boy Toy who looks just like Al Pacino. And -- here's the best part -- I would meet him the very next day!! Oh yes yes scroll wink wish blast!...scroll wink wish blast!

All I got out of that little adventure was a nervous tic and a room of my own out behind the barn.

I keep getting told that what I'm promised is straight from the horse's mouth and I can take it to the bank. No way I'm taking anything to the bank that I receive from someone who can't tell one end of the horse from the other. Huh-uh. No way.

And don't threaten me with evil chain-letter leprechauns who will swarm on my house and sodomize me in my sleep for not continuing a chain letter that St. Peter started in 5 AD and was covertly brought to this country by tiny little itty-bitty rogue pilgrims on the Mayflower. Screw them. That's what I always say...

Don't try to send me on a guilt trip about one of my fellow Americans with no teeth who was captured in Botswana and has been shackled against his will to the ass of a dead elephant for 27 years and whose only salvation is the 5-cents per letter he'll receive if I forward your email.

Hey -- I've been suffering the same fate for nearly a decade myself. Unless my nickel will get that unfortunate twit to the polls where he'll be motivated to ram his marker up that Rooster's ass until the freaking bird squawks, I don't have time for him...

So, if I break the chain -- don't threaten me with my underwear turning carnivorous and consuming my nether regions. I don't care. If it's funny, I'll send it on. Okay? Otherwise, I don't need no steenkin' chain letters.

Point is -- don't piss me off. Make me laugh.

Now, forward this to everyone you know.


Love,
Sheila