{Sent today}To Whom It May Concern:
As of August 13, 2007, I have been selected to serve my civilian duty as juror for the 12th District Court of the State of New York. This letter is to regretfully inform you that I cannot fulfill this obligation. I will have you know, however, that this decision is not made by choice, but rather by situation.
To fully explain myself and my reasoning for abandoning the task assigned of me by my state and city, I first must clarify a few particulars fantastic in nature:
1) Gnomes exist.
2) Regardless of what some folklore states, gnomes are not very reasonable or pleasant when there is a lack of sugar in their tiny bodies. Plainly put: They become quite irate and sharply rancorous with their actions and words when sweets are absent.
I myself believed neither of the above points until I awoke one morning, not a week ago, to a gnome sitting on the headboard of my bed. My eyes opened only to see the bottoms of two small leather boots gently tapping aloof not a foot above me. Wanting to see if I was dreaming my first reaction was to rub my eyes or slap my face or get some coffee; a movement of some sort was needed to reacquaint myself with the reality I’ve come to know where clock radios and caffeine take the responsibility of waking you, not the rapping of miniature feet. But my attempt at such a movement was disheartened at once. I found myself restrained to my own bed by fishing line. My fishing line. The spool lay down on the floor in knots.
The gnome above took notice of my jarring about and then went on to calmly whisper that I have been chosen to provide for him and his “ilk,” as he put it. He continued with words of quiet encouragement and reassurance of no harm as long as I participated willingly. Of course, scared for my sanity and life, I agreed.
As the hours passed I began to realize that an entire fleet of gnomes, with their pointed, floppy, mushroom-skinned hats and matching earth-made apparels, were sacking my home. I could hear things being thrown about, shelves crashing, glasses breaking, all while their weensy, breathy voices ricocheted through hallways that were once mine and comfortable. Finally, after enough time had passed that I was convinced this was indeed really happening, I asked the gnome above what it was they were looking for. “Powdered creamer,” he simply murmured.
Here, two folds of terror shot through me: 1) the audacity behind being restrained for a cheap coffee accoutrement and 2) I had and have no powdered creamer in the house. How this came to be, how my home––the home of a coffee enthusiast, whether expensive or cheap––came to be empty of creamer is another letter in itself, but suffice it to say that a certain significant person in my life left for a new batch of powered flavor for our morning brews only never to return. My personal life, like my coffee, has been devoid of smack and sweet-spice ever since.
It took the team of gnomes only a few hours to come to the conclusion I had known already: no creamer. At this realization, the gnome who was my company for the morning was called away by some unseen mumble-hiss. Next thing I saw was a swarm of ten to fifteen gnomes struggling, dragging a bread knife down the hall toward me and the bedroom. They only made it halfway until each one collapsed exhausted, panting, their curses sounding like the rubbing of a thousand insect wings. Then they gathered themselves again for another task: a wooden spoon. This time they progressed stoically to the door frame of the bedroom then, again, fell to the floor too fatigued to continue.
Afraid, I tried to tell them that someone would be coming soon, hopefully, with creamer, that it was on the way, but they only ignored me, throwing up their minute hands as if to bat away the lies I was hurling at them. The group limped back toward the kitchen and, again, I had to endure the sounds of my belongings being tossed and broken. When they came back into my view a few of them where carrying a white-topped orange plastic bottle with amazing ease. The gnome that woke me had a fingernail-wide grin on his face while he walked toward me, I could tell even through the beard. I braced myself as they climbed the bed, completely unaware of what was to happen next. As the small, bearded men crested into view, I finally saw what it was they were hoisting: Bubble solution.
The next few hours of my life are ones that will forever change me. Parts of my soul have died; aspects of my person dissipated like wet footprints in summer’s heat. What happened next, what these mini-monsters did to me, was completely unforeseeable. They climbed all over me, on my chest, my face, in my hair. Their feet sunk into my skin, their breath smelled of upturned soil. One of the gnomes positioned himself by my ear and whispered, “Just tell us where the creamer is. You think we’d come here if you didn’t have any? We know you. We know all about you.” Then the four who were standing on my face pried open my eyes, two to an eye. The bubble solution was maneuvered on to my chest and then the rest of the group burrowed under my pillow and propped up my head. I was staring at a bubble wand, its circle filled by moving, soapy colors, with eyes pulled open. It might as well have been the barrel of a gun. Two gnomes from behind the screen of iridescence then took deep breaths and finally exhaled. Bubbles, hundreds of bubbles, hit my eyes.
Torture. It’s the best word to describe it, what I’ve been though. Even now, I’m still tied up, eyes raw and red. At this point, I bet I have enough soap in my eyes to blow bubbles out of them, from the inside, my thoughts acting as air. Please know, as of this moment, I am dictating this letter to you. Like a game of Twister, a gnome is hoping about and contorting himself on the keyboard of my laptop so that this letter will reach you. It is the one favor they will grant me. They have no intention of letting me go, or believing me when I tell them that I have no creamer. This ordeal, though maybe far from over, has pained me greatly, but the prospect of maybe surviving this only to go to jail for failing to attend to my civic duty of juror, truly deflates my entire being, soul, body, and mind.
I pray for your understanding. And also creamer.
Yours,
Selfstonishment
Quit faking it. Of course you probably think that due to the looping filaments of glowing gas extending much farther from your central star that you're off the hook, but I do believe that you're the first nebula I have found to be completely full of sh*t. You are what is referred to in the streets... as a trick ass bitch. And you, you!, will never be my only one.
Hello. You star clusters just don't get the picture. Judging by this 'picture' us humans obviously do. We caught you guys with your galactic pants down, and your space dicks whipped the fu*k out and Earth has had enough. This is the most ridiculously slow and unacceptable orgy we have ever seen and we have seen a lot. You guys get TV out there? No? What about all your favorite NY sports teams in stunning HD? Nothing? No entertainment value. Fu*k space.
Look at this sparkly bag of sh*t. You wouldn't even know if there was a problem with your shiny attitude, because your head is so far up your star-ass! All of the asses of your stars. -- And look at that little piss-ant spiral galaxy in the lower right. If that guy doesn't hide the fact that he loves Gossip Girl and the occasional space reach around, then I'm not a human stuck on a really small planet, writing hateful things about, oh I don't know... Fu*k Space maybe?
The moon has long been associated with romance and the search inside the human soul to find meaning in our world. To this I say, did you guys forget werewolves? Yeah, cos they will, along with being seriously sexy young men seducing Kristin Stewart in a forest, rip your fu*king fingers off, shove them in your eyes and asshole, and then feast on the corpulent remains of your once stupid face. PhotoShopped or not this does not make any sense. The moon is dangerous. No way. No thanks.
This is about the scariest thing I've ever seen. It's like Dracula took a sh*t after eating a gallon of glitter glue and motor oil. You'd think that being the unofficial Lord of the Undead he would stick to blood, but it would appear that even Dracula has fallen for the magic of space. Fu*k both space and now, sadly, Dracula. Let's look at the stats, hmm? No oxygen - below zero - radiation - Oh I don't know...fu*k you and, yes: fu*k space.
Alright you guys. Break it up. Go home. What? You are home. Well fu*k my hand! Get a job sir! You'd think that my tax dollars go to helping the people who need it, but here you folks are, light years away from any sense of dignity. Hanging out at all hours of the space-day, looking for something to smoke or shoot, drinking all types of dust. I say again...fu*k space.
You folks just don't get it. Do you? Right in the middle of SPACE, where everyone (with a seriously high-powered telescope floating above Earth's atmosphere with the ability to compile composite images of the universe using infrared, ultraviolet light, far-field gravitational lensing, and radio waves) can see? You guys make me want to spray my favorite shag carpet with vomit, induced from eating a wig and a broccoli Hot Pocket at the same time. I could probably squat down, right now, and make something that has more grace and courtesy than you two fly out of my ass at the speed of s*it! Do not ever test me.
