Dear Mike:

My boyfriend of twelve minutes has a bad habit of leaving the toilet seat up. Since I am permanently blind and have no limbs, this has caused several life-threatening incidents to occur in my washroom. How can I get him to put the seat back down?

Carrie the Circus Gerbil, New York

Dear Carrie:

The thing is, the wheel, it go nowhere. Tread, tread, tread, you keep workin them fine thighs but ye end oop exactly where ye started. Fortunately, the tail comes oaf. And in only a few weeks you'll grow ay new one.

Dear Mike:

I heard a rumor that secretly, all grades of gasoline are really the same thing; i.e., Power Premium costs more, but is chemically identical to Unleaded. Is this true??

Mary in Miami

Dear Mary:

Yeah, it's true. Although ah am oan the lowest possible rung ay the Inconvenience Store Corporate Letter, an would have nae way of knowin, since I dinnae even buy the crappy gas where I work, the Dark Overlords figured they best tell me awl aboot it. They figured wi my high salary (nearly minimum wage!) an me benefits package, ah'd never blab it tae the media, cause ah love them sae much.

Dear Mikey Mad:

Ah luv yir column n ah reads nog eet e'ery week. Kin nae wait fir they nex oon nearly pish mahsel wi erk joy when Rev. Bob puts it oop oan the web. U patio, thae PATIO, minny, minny!

Ewan, Glasgow

Dirrr Ewyn:

Whae de heel i wron wi ye? Ah read yir cripey litter fir nir haff yonk n nae erk made nae sense nog ootae it. Why kin ye nae write yir gurpin dillekt layk a norm hum, whae, O ye thinky we git noothin better tae do thin try tae mik sens y oota thit?

Dear M.P.:

Are you really seven feet tall? For reasons the government of Madagascar prevents me from going into right now, I am convinced anyone who regularly uses the word "inconvenience" must be at least six foot ten inches tall.

Erik, Portland, Oregon

PS: Are you and Rev. Bob the same person?

Hey Erik:

Does yir ma know why yir sister's preggers?

PS: Rev. Bob is only three feet tall. If ye cut his legs oaf. I would nae recommend doin thit. He'd be angry. I'm nae kiddin. Ask Hamm.

Hamm responds: He's not kidding.

Rev. Bob responds: Damn straight.

Dear Mike:

Please? Pretty please?

Bill Clinton, DC

Dear Clinty:

Nae! Absolutely nae! The Gore daughters, maybe, but ah must forcefully decline this 1,237th request from ye.

Dear Mike Madden:

I am a big fan of yours, and have been enjoying your witty, insightful prose for some time now. I personally think you are even more fun than a pack of psychotic bigheaded grey aliens. Unfortunately, I have a bit of a dilemma. Each week, I look forward to printing out a hard copy, lying on my bed and masturbating (or, having a wank, as you Scots say) to the latest installment. In particular, I find sexy the parts where you say "whae nae" and "ah dinnae ken". However, I have a small problem with cleanup afterwards. Normally I employ toilet paper, but that sometimes tears up and leaves white sticky bits on my stomach. In particular I am curious about what to do with the small pond of semen that coagulates in my bellybutton, which is especially difficult to wipe away. Any suggestions?

Sloppy in SoHo

Dear Sloppy:

Instead ay lyin doon, try wankin while standin oop, an ejaculatin intae a plastic Ziploc bag. Keep the bag in the freezer, an repeat this process many times, until ye have several bags full ay frozen semen. Then, take a small hammer an crush the frozen spunk. Invite awl yir friends over fir drinks, an use the crushed frozen chunks tae keep the drinks chilled. When they ask why the ice floatin in their glasses is white, say "Because that's not ice - that's my frozen sperm!" They should get a big kick oota this, an ostracize ye fir years tae come.

PS: Ah'm nae a Scot.

Dear M.P.:

What's that smell?

Love, Carrie, Chicago

Dear Carrie:

Accordin tae the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, the knowledge ay the position an the momentum ay a particle nae can both be known, an the amount ay uncertainty ay one increases as the other decreases. Ah postulate, therfir, that no one who owns ay copy ay Showgirls, starrin thit cute hot squinker ay Saved By the Bell, should be allowed tae hold any elected office higher than Governor ay Arkansas. Get me drift? Obviously you do, as yir letter indicated.

Dear Mr. Madden:

Love the rants. Am big fan of Scotland, particularly the "Highlander" stuff, especially the TV series - that guy on the show is so much cuter than the guy in the movies. Do you know any way I could contact the studmuff? Scotland, I understand, is pretty tight; thought you might.

Stuart, Harmon, GA

Hey Stuart:

Ah am nae Scottish, you eejit! Ah am NAE a Scot! Ah am Pakistani!! AWL c-stores workers are Pakistani. LEARN from the stereotypes - it's why they're there.

Excuse me please Mr. Madden Sir but:

I have always enjoyed your rants, and enjoy it every week, although I do not always agree with your stances on some issues. However, I must say that printing the letter concerning cleanup of "Wanking" - not to mention your nauseating response to it - has truly exceeded the limits of good taste. Not only am I offended as a professional caterer, but also as a parent. Normally, my family, including my daughters Binky and Lexi, aged 8 and 12, look forward to sitting down with some lukewarm cocoa and reading your rants. Don't you think that in a family-oriented publication such as Get Off the Cross, you ought not print such filthy, vile trash?

Steve Sunday, Pleasant Valley, MN

Dear Steve:

Binky's your bairn? Man, thit's one crazy little burd. She wis ay me crib the otha night, an she oot drank awl ay us, even ol Hamm. Course, the alcohol didnae do too many pleasant things tae her digestives, an she winds oop pukin awl oafa my authentic first issue ay Spider Man vs. Captain Syph. I wisnae too pissed, since she promised you'd pay fir it. Thit wis, like, six month ago. Whar the hell is me check?

Rev. Bob responds:

Where the hell did you get the idea that Get Off The Cross! is a family-oriented publication, anyway? At least we rate our content by RSACi guidelines, though.

Dear Mike:

Am huge fan. Was particularly incensed by your April 12, 1994 rant, entitled "Top Ten Reasons Bill Clinton Will Nae Teach His Anus to Speak". Unfortunately, due to computer errors, I missed numbers 4, 7 and 2. Would you mind reprinting them, so I can reach the zenith of outrage?

A. Gore, um, somewhere that isn't Washington, um, right

Dear A.:

Sure! Nae problem. The number seven reason Billy Clinton will nae empower his arsehole wi the gift ay speech is "Boys' State Camp, 1964". Number four is "Who wants tae hear an arsehole recountin tales ay drunken Arkansas nights ay cow tippin an such cripe?", and the number two reason is "Damn, Chelsea wis a cute wee bairn..."

Yo Mike Dude:

How come on Star Trek they can take themselves apart atom by atom and fling themslelves across space and then reassemble themselves, but they can't use they same molecular de/reconstruct technology to do stuff like healing serious wounds and stopping aging and bringing back the dead or whatever?

Deke, Atlanta

Dear Deke:

Ah understand the frustration ye feel ay this apparent techno-contradicition, an - umm, well, nae really. But ah have addressed this very question in a Rant entitled "The Shatner Factor," which wis originally published in Life magazine in April of 1933. Fir info oan how tae obtain a copy ay thit rant, contact Rev. Bob, an he'll tell ye exactly where tae go. Fir more info oan William Shatner, go tae yir local public library an check oot Phasers on Kill by Yeoman Expendable, or Top Ten Reasons William Shatner Won't Teach His Anus to Talk, by Leonard Nimoy.

Attention Mr. Madden:

I have to say, I'm somewhat confused. One week, you're ranting about religion, even going so far as to take selected Biblical quotes and warp them to fit some pre-determined agenda of yours. The very next week, your rant is nothing but a lot of sickening, utterly scatological quasi-jokes about semen and talking rectums. What gives? Can't you stick to one subject for more than five seconds, or do you have the attention span (and the sense of humor) of a thirteen year-old boy?

Jerry Leibowitz, MA

Dear Jerry:

Coat a large pan wi butter. Put rant in pan, an smear melted baker's chocolate awl oafa it. Sprinkle wi confetti, flecks ay snot, small engine parts an a mixture ay eggs, sugar, and flem. Allow to steep in direct sunlight fir twelve yonks, an then bake ay 300 degrees fir ten hours. Severs - ay mean, serves - 4.3 people.

PS: Garnish wi kittens, love y rainbows.

ATTENTION EARTHLING:

WE ARE THE TRAFALDAMORIANS. WE HAVE BEEN OBSERVING YOUR PLANET FOR SEVERAL DECADES. OUR MASTER PLAN WAS TO GLEEFULLY RECYCLE YOUR WORLD INTO A SMALL PILE OF SPACE WEASEL DROPPINGS. RECENTLY HOWEVER WE LEARNED OF YOUR RANTS AND BEGAN READING THEM. BECAUSE OF YOUR RANTS WE HAVE DECIDED NOT TO GO AHEAD WITH THE PLAN. YOU ALONE CHANGED OUR MINDS. YOUR RANTS ARE CONCLUSIVE PROOF THAT YOU EARTHLINGS WILL SOON TURN INTO A PILE OF SPACE WEASEL DROPPINGS WITHOUT OUR HELP SO WE SHALL NOT BOTHER DOING IT OURSELVES.

HAVE A NICE DAY

PS: WE ARE BIG FANS OF THE HIGHLANDER TV SERIES. IF YOU SEE THAT COOL EARTHLING WITH THE SWORD TELL HIM WE SAID HI.

Dear Art Bell Dudes:

Ah am NAE a Scot, ye stupid big headed gray skinned bug eyed freaks!

Mr. Madden:

I was in the Inconvenience Store where you work approximately three months ago, and I purchased a gallon of milk. Upon receiving my charge-card bill two weeks later, I realized you had charged me around five thousand dollars for said gallon of milk. When I returned to your store to ask that you assist me in receiving remittance for your error, I was subject to severe verbal abuse from a clerk whose name tag bore a word which is synonymous with a pork product. Normally, I refrain from contacting the upper escheleons of any corporation, as I understand how such activity can fluster gimcracks such as yourself. However, in this situation, I found myself with no choice. In my attempt to contact your superiors, I was handed a Complaint Procedure Card by said clerk, a card which instructed me to "slay two virgins and scribe my bitchery upon ravenhide" and then "call forth the unholy Gatekeeper" and instruct him to "send a flying buttmonkey" with my complaint "locked in the monkey's grizzly maw" in order that the "Dark Overlords of Inconvenience Stores" receive my complaint. Could you tell me: how to get the charge erased from my bill; what, exactly, is a gimcrack; and could you also provide me with a word count of this letter?

Thank You,
Alexis Tremely White, Address Withheld

Dear Mrs. White:

In Iran, they call America the Great Satan. Please refrain from adding more fodder to thit incisive, blunt yet appropriate commentary upon the decline ay Western Civilization.

PS: Whae ever ye do, dinnae pet the buttmonkey.

Hey M.P.:

My penis is gay, but the rest of my body is strictly heterosexual. Do you thinks this condition could possibly entitle me to food stamps? Not all chihuahuas are hairless, but the duct tape comes off so much easier.

XOXOXOX, Dwight, Hawaii

Dearest, dearest little Dwight:

Although ay is also a hetero, ay have been a member ay the gay community fir oafa 1,000 cycles ay the Wheel ay Karma. Ah would like tae remind everyone that June is Gay Pride month. Look fir ways tae support alternative lifestyles in yir own town, an if there are nae, then damn well start some.

Dear Mike:

Are you sure you're not making all of these so-called "letters" up? The fact that although you claim to have never published these letters on your rant before, an yet, possibly through magic I suppose, several letters are responses to other letters featured in this very rant, adds to my suspicious.

Harvey, YA

Dear Harvey:

Shut up.

OOt Eek rghtr:

TRfh RRJ! eRer!! WeeeEEEE!! Eeeee! EEEEEEE!!!! Eeee, eee, rethaogin osigj tpopp EEE!!!!!!! Sluurrrppp!

rhoi lijatoj

Dear Buttmonkey:

Whae kin ah say? Ah told the stupid white woman nae tae pet ye.

Dear Mr. Madden:

As part of your Public Health Awareness Movement, I would like to alert your readers to a little-known danger lurking in every supermarket and Inconvenience Store across the country. For years, I blissfully consumed this product, unaware of the damage it was wreaking upon my body. By the time my cholesterol was at 50% and my fat count so high that my heart was on the verge of giving out, it was too late - I was already addicted, I was already under their evil, creamy white spell. And not once was I ever warned of the dangers of the dairy demon commonly known as "milk". Please tell your readers to beware, lest they end up like me. I am now part of a national campaign to put warning labels on the milk cartons, and

Dear Milk Whore:

Sorry, but ah hud tae terminate that letter on the grounds that I couldn't stop pishing mahsel laughin at it. By the time I get tae the third sentence, it wis too late - ah wis soaked. Ah am now part of a national campaign tae put warnin labels oan letters sae stupid they're brilliant...