18 July 2006

David W. Miller Junior Of Somewhere In Michigan - We Thank You!

Could David W. Miller, Jr. of Somewhere In Michigan be one of these
merry, banjo-plucking coots? Perhaps we'll never know.


I don't have much time, so I gotta make this short. Just got back from a 4-day vacation at Crater Lake - details to follow in a later installment. The remainder of this epistle is brought to you by:

[Drum roll!]

DAVID W. MILLER JR. of SOMEWHERE IN MICHIGAN who, for God knows what reason, purchased an EYE-SCORCHINGLY GREY "SQUIRRELS GRABBED MY NUTSACK" T-SHIRT from THE GREGMART! Thanks to D.W. Miller, Jr., The Gunn Family has now skyrocketed into a tax bracket that is $2 (American) higher than the one we were in before DWM-JR five-fingered his dad's credit card and illegitimately procured the finest garment in the whole line of GregMart's NutSackWear(tm). Why he purchased it, I have no idea. He's not on my direct mail list, nor does his name sound familiar.

(Hey wait - isn't he David W. Miller's kid? You and I are both from Michigan, after all. Maybe it is someone we know. Is it that Miller kid from over on Elizabeth Lake Boulevard who was always trying to get us to touch the dog - oh never mind. Probably not him. He'd be an old man by now.)

Perhaps he went Googling for keyword: nutsack. Perhaps we will never know. But we will be happy in our ignorance as we peel back one...two...two whole pictures of George Washington (or Barbara Bush, if you like), load them into the ice cream vending machine, retrieve our Lil' Giant Ice Cream Sandwiches from the lower tray, and thrill at the happy clinking of our two bits in change - which I will promptly donate to the first hobo I come across. I am already dizzy with my future largesse.

Now stay close because we're gonna move quickly through the rest of this, okay? I'm going to put bold headlines on this stuff so you can assimilate it easily. Here we go:

[Clog roll!]

WHAT YOU ARE READING IS NOT A BLOG. Surprised? Some were. The word "blog" is of course a truncation of the words "Web" and "log", neither of which accurately describes what you see before you here. This is correspondence from me (Thaddeus) to you (Gregory), after all. The fact that it is read by hundreds of others is a happy accident arising from the fact that I put it on the Internet, and then invited hundreds of people to read it. Who'd've thought they actually would? Anyway, if it's a log of anything, it's a log of correspondence, or a "correspondence log" which makes it in fact a "clog" - which is exactly how it will be referred to in the future. "Hey, have you seen Greg's clog?" Has a certain snappiness to it, don't it?

[Fudge roll!]

FACT: FUDGEPACKERS ACTUALLY PACK FUDGE. "Fudgepacker" - a slanderous epithet which you no doubt use with alarming frequency - is not what you thought it was either. Hiking in Crater Lake National Park last weekend, I saw the definitional paragon of fudgepacking, and it is this: two oxygen-starved, Hush-Puppy-wearing nerds at 8,500 feet on the side of Mount Scott, overwhelmed by the abundant beauty surrounding them, threw down their book bags (yes, book bags) and their jumbo-sized, Crater-Lake-Blue Gott bigmouth cooler jug with EZ-grip handle (yes, cooler jug - not pictured here), and tearing their button-down shirts from their chalky, chalky flesh, nearly flung themselves off a cornice and down a snowfield whilst shrieking in paroxysms of einf├╝ling. In the melee, the entire contents of their luggage spilled forth onto the pumice trail - exposing, yes, an industrial-strength bag of chocolate fudge. Crapping you am I? Nay, I am not. If that's not fudgepacking, and if they're not fudgepackers, I don't know what is and what are. Now you can stop badgering the people over at See's Candies with those silly crank phone calls.

[Plug roll!]


[Cheers roll!]

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.


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