utter wonder: the idle thoughts of c monks

an open letter to the hermit crabs in my three-year old's beach pail

Dear Hermit Crabs,

I’m sorry. I know you’ve got better things to do with your lives right now, but my son loves you and wants as many of you as he can put into his blue beach pail. I realize being crammed in a small pail doesn’t feel like love, but let me assure that my son really has affection for you. All he talked about on the way to the beach today was hermit crabs and how “funny” and “pretty” they are. He said he wanted to put at least fifty-seven of you in his pail.

I’m not sure how many of you are in there now. I lost track around thirty-five. Regardless, I understand it isn’t exactly a stress-free environment. Many of you appear to be quite stir-crazy, frantically trying to crawl out of the pail to no avail, while others of you seem more forlorn, as if you’ve accepted the fact that this is where it all will end. I keep trying to convince my son that it’s time to release you because you need to go home and see your families. Unfortunately he’s at an age where he’s not easily persuaded to do anything he doesn’t want to do. That’s why he’s wearing mittens. His mother and I spent fifteen unsuccessful minutes trying to coax him into to taking them off. That wasn’t a lot of fun. He told me several times that he wasn’t my friend anymore and that I wouldn’t get any of his birthday cake. His birthday was five months ago so that part didn’t as much hurt as the not being considered his friend anymore part did. I mean, he’s my son; I desperately want him to think of me as his friend.

So you see these are hard times for us all. Hang in there. Sorry about all the snails, too. My son seems to think that you and the snails are having a play date. I’m not sure just what kind of relationship you have with snails, but my best guess is that if you had your druthers you wouldn’t want to play in a small beach pail with them while some small human dumps a never-ending stream of sand and water on top of you. Oh, and hello to you, snails. I’d write you a letter of apology too, but you don’t seem to mind being in the pail as much. Am I right? I don’t know; mollusks are harder to read.

Anyway, crabs: right now the plan is for me to distract my son with a bag of Pirate Booty so that his mother can steal the pail away and dump you back into the ocean. The only issue is his probable commitment to eating the Pirate Booty with his mittens on. I’m anticipating that will lead to another battle of epic proportions, but I realize that is not your problem. You just want out of the pail. Loud and clear. If the Pirate Booty plan doesn’t work, be advised that there is a good chance you will be taken back to our house. However, should you survive the rest of the day I promise to return you to the beach after our son’s bedtime, which will probably be between the hours of 8 pm and 11 pm, depending on whether he agrees to end his bath strike or not and how many vodka tonics I’ve drunk in an effort to forget today ever happened.

Sincerely,

C Monks

dr. gina plays the sopranos

In the upcoming preview for next week's episode of The Sopranos I noticed that the actress Alison Bartlett-O'Reilly will be making a guest appearance on the show. I can't tell you how excited I am about this. To many, Alison Bartlett-O'Reilly is not exactly a household name, but in this here blog cave, Alison Bartlett-O'Reilly is a superstar.

That's because Alison Bartlett-O'Reilly's regular acting gig is playing "Dr. Gina" on Sesame Street. That's right, she's the resident veterinarian who takes care of all the neighborhood's animals' and monsters' maladies. She's also the object of affection of Elmo, and I can't say that I blame him. Alison Bartlett-O'Reilly as "Dr. Gina" is like a drop of golden sun every time she comes on the screen. A drop of golden animal and monster savin' sun!

Sesame Street is pretty much a staple of our household. The Chosen One and Lil' Buddy can't get enough of the show. They watch it everyday, sometimes over and over again. They're so cute when they do, as they just sort of stare at the screen like cute little zombies. And I don't care what the latest silly little medical study says about the links between toddler TV watching and ADHD I watched TV all the time when I was a wee C and look at me, I turned out fine!

What was I talking about again? Oh, right: doughnuts. I can't get enough of doughnuts. They are by far the tastiest breakfast snack of all-time. And I for one don't think they're just for breakfast. No, I eat doughnuts morning, noon, and night. They give me just the right balance of sugar, carbs, and fluffy dough that my body needs to maintain peak performance. Guns N' Roses were overrated! My favorite color is aquamarine!

Have I mentioned that Alison Bartlett-O'Reilly, Sesame Street's "Dr. Gina", is going to be on The Sopranos this week? Well, she is. I love Dr. Gina; she is by far the sexiest adult on the program. Maria was the sexiest cast member for quite a long time, but let's face it: she's getting up there in the age category, and Raquel Welch, Maria is not. Gordon, too, has always been a little sexy, as you can't not help be attracted to a guy who pulls of the bald with mustache look. Still, it's Dr. Gina who has got it going on the most. She has so much going on it's crazy. Really.

And now she's going to be on The Sopranos. How freakin' cool is that? I wonder if it'll be a crossover type roll, like Dr. Gina paying a house call on Silvio's sick cat or something. I don't know, it's hard to tell from the preview what she's going to do as all we see is her screaming into a telephone for a half-second. I bet she curses, though. Boy, will that be something to see and hear: Dr. Gina cursing. Wild stuff. I wonder, too, if she'll be naked. If not full nudity, then perhaps some brief nudity. Gotta love the BN. I give a little cheer whenever I see the BN advisory displayed before an episode of The Sopranos.

Whether briefly nude or not, I still am looking forward to Alison Bartlett-O'Reilly's appearance. It will make an already awesome show all the more awesomer. Maybe it will start a trend, too, and more of Sesame Street's human cast members will make a jump to HBO programs. I think Susan from Sesame Street would make a fine tough-talking federal agent on The Wire, and it's obvious to all who've enjoyed his work over the years that Bob would make a great opiate-addicted cowboy on Deadwood. Man, would that be sweet or what? Then I could not only watch Sesame Street with my boys, but HBO programs heavy on the BN, as well! I once had a pet hamster named Alex! I want hot dogs for dinner! My fingers feel funny!

God bless television!

This post is dedicated to one of these things being not like the others.

subject lines in recent spam i've received

"what's up zxsdasfafa?"

"Pony Rides - 25 or 2 for 50!"

"shed those pounds"

"Regarding your letters to Ms. Star Jones"

"start your own sunglass business free of charge!"

"Explore high quality Super-Viagcrka!"

"24.675 potential customers are searching for 'Honey Baked Ham" on Google"

"Stop mailing letters to Ms. Jones"

"testicular"

"Help With Pain"

"URGENT BUSINESS PROPOSAL"

"wwantt your unit workingg?"

"Notice of affidavit filed on behalf of Ms. Star Jones"

"Saturn: the wonderful secret of space"

"Open her flood gates of passion"

"confidential discreet zckxhsk"

"lonely?"

"Re: I'm sorry but I am Star Jones' biggest fan in the entire world whether you like it or not"

"thousands of russian lovers at your fingertips!"

"desperate?"

This post is dedicated to hot dang!

today's fan letter to star jones

This post is dedicated to the 1000 shattered shards of my broken heart.

an open letter to the people searching for a picture of janet jackson's halftime breast

Hi. Welcome to Utter Wonder. I suppose I should start off with an apology: there is no photo of Janet Jackson's halftime breast here.

Wait! Don't go! Please stay!

You just got here. Take a load off. I realize you may be jonesin' for Janet Jackson's halftime breast, but there's plenty of other stuff here that should more than meet your Janet Jackson's halftime breast wanting needs.

No really, there is. You won't find many sexy photos, but there's lots of clever stuff about Star Jones. No naked pictures of her, of course, but I have this funny made-up obsession with Star that I often write about. It's hilarious. Really.

Okay, if that's not your cup of tea how about a week long story about a raccoon that invaded my house? No? Well, then there's Doodle Week. That was fun. Everybody loves doodles.

I like them, anyway.

Still not lightin' your fire, huh? Hmm. Once I read the Instapundit for an entire day and wrote about the experience in real time. I know, tell me about it: wasn't exactly a cake walk. Still, I pulled it off. Did it a second time, too. Never heard from the Instapundit about it, but that's because he's probably too caught up guns and techno music.

I hate techno.

But if you like techno, that's okay. Just because you appreciate monotonous and white sounding dance music doesn't mean you can't share in the delight that is my website. Utter Wonder is for all people--it's a delightful website designed for people of all sorts and lame music tastes to enjoy.

Yep.

In fact there really isn't any other website like mine. I mean who else would think to write a letter to all the people searching for Janet Jackson's halftime breast?

Wait; let me check to make sure nobody else has. Be right back.

…

Hmm. He has. And he did it like two days ago, too.

Oh well. That's okay. It's not like people will think I'm copying him or anything. No, my site is completely unique and original. It truly stands out from every other blog in the blogosphere.

Damn it.

Why am I so slow on the uptake? I should have written to people searching for Janet Jackson’s halftime breast as soon I started getting all their traffic. It's not like I had anything better to write about. This is why my blog is forever stuck at 4.72 hits a day. The couple of days when it gets a big jump due to some member of the Jackson family flashing her mam to the world, I don't take advantage of it until it's too late. Way to go me. Yay, frickin' me.

So go ahead and leave if you want. Sorry to waste your time. As a token of my appreciation for staying as long as you did here's a photo of Latoya Jackson with some white guy:

I know it doesn't nearly make up for the time you've lost to search elsewhere for Janet Jackson's halftime breast, but I hope you get something out of it nonetheless. I know I have.

Happy internet travels,
C.

This post is dedicated to lambs lying down on Broadway.

an open letter to becky from the online singles club

Dear Becky xxkhydvkxxzzd,

As always, I was flattered to receive yet another electronic missive from you this past weekend. I shall treasure each and every one of your invitations to join "The Ultimate Adult Community." I'm one who strives to be a part of the chosen, and for you to choose me to become a member of your esteemed online club makes me feel proud and accepted. I'm sure those who've joined you and your club brothers and sisters have reveled in (as you so eloquently state in your emails) the "picture trading, chatting, story sharing, and get together[ing] to party, and well, you know."

Still, it pains me to say yet again that I cannot accept your generous offer. I admire your determination and resolve. With each regret I return back to you, you reply with another email asking me to be a part of your "sexy singles internet love shack." I've never felt so wanted in my life. I also find very clever the emails you send me that seem to pretend that you've never corresponded with me before, as if I am on some list randomly generated by a super-computer that churns out thousands and thousands of emails a day. Now, I love science fiction, but I know that most creations of the genre are just that: science fiction. I realize that super-computers like those are but a figment of the imagination of our most inspired and introverted writers and don't exist in the real world that both you and I, Becky xxkhydvkxxzzd, live in.

I can't let this note end without thanking you for the lovely pictures of yourself that you’ve included within each message. I admire the freedom of self you convey in your photographs. It is clear that you are not chained by the stuffy confines of socially accepted norms, and I admire your naturalistic attitude around clothing, or wearing lack thereof. I am also quite taken by your choice of interior decoration. To leave your white walls bare is a bold move, very deconstructionist and minimalistic. The exposed light bulb on the sconce in your hallway is both disarming and challenging. Oh, who am I kidding? I know nothing about the theories of art or design, I just like pretending that I do. I love pretending! I am a child at heart, and I know you know this about me. Why I dare say that you know me very well, as if we were distant cousins or occasional co-workers who sometimes shared the same shifts at the local Wal-Mart.

And that's why it makes it all the more harder to decline your invitation. I know there is a connection between us, Becky xxkhydvkxxzzd, but it must be disconnected. Even though I am shocked and awed by your steady pursuit of me, I cannot join your club. Let me say this one last time in my most sensitive "It's not you, it's me" tone of voice: I cannot join your club. Please don't send another one of your lovely, alluring, and typo-ridden requests: I think it's best that we stop communicating altogether. It'll be hard, but it's the only way for this to end. We feed off one another with our email exchanges, and I think the food has become unhealthy for us, so I feel that we should stop eating each other. Of course I don't mean we must really stop eating each other because if I did it would imply that we've really been eating each other, and that is not the case. We are not cannibals. If we were cannibals I think we'd have far more serious issues to overcome than simply ending our online penpalship.

As I sit here and type this farewell note to you I am finding it hard to cease tapping my fingers over the keyboard, for I realize this will be the last time my fingers type words made for your eyes. (Yes, those are the stains of electronic tears you see on your screen.) A part of me just wants to keep tapping my fingers over the keyboard, just wants me to tap, tap, tap away because I don't want this to end. But another part of me--the part that firmly believes that this should end and that I am not a cannibal--knows that I need to stop tapping now, now, now--oh, there, you see? The part of me that wants to keep tapping on the keyboard interrupted the ending of that last sentence and added a couple of more "nows." Oh, to be pulled in two different directions at once, Becky xxkhydvkxxzzd! Why this? Why now? Why Me? Why this? Why now? Why me? Why this? Why now? Why me? Why--stop that! Okay.

Farewell,
C

This post is dedicated to our new Miss USA, Formerly Miss Massachusetts, Susie Castillo.

my message to the afterlife

The Afterlife Telegram agency offers to deliver your messages to the dead...The service hires terminally-ill patients, who will deliver the messages upon "passing into the afterlife." --From Harper's Magazine, February, 2003.

Message to the squirrel I ran over near the intersection of Broadway and Maple on January 13th, 2003:

Hi squirrel. This is sort of awkward. I've never written a message to the dead before. I've never written directly to an animal before either. So I guess, you could say I'm a little "green behind the ears" at this. Ha-ha. I'm sorry, I don't mean to make light of it. I really regret running over you last week. I can't tell you how upset I've been ever since it happened. Nowhere near as upset as you've been about it, I'm sure. That's understandable. I hope this letter finds you in a happy, fun squirrel heaven doing happy, fun squirrel things. Like eating nuts, running up trees, and mating with other squirrels. I'm assuming there is recreational sex in heaven. If there is not, then I apologize for bringing it up...Man that would suck if there wasn't any recreational sex in heaven. Anyway, I'm sending you this message via a terminally ill person to officially apologize for killing you and to extend my sincerest hope that you will cease haunting me night and day. I never believed in ghosts until you began terrorizing ever waking hour of my life. You are a very scary ghost, I grant you that. The first time I saw you leap out at me from behind my home entertainment center I nearly wet my pants. The shrieking and moaning throughout all the rooms of my house in the middle of the night is effective as well. As is the way your disconnected tail pops up out of nowhere in bizarre places. You've made me feel like I'm going crazy, so mad props to you and your haunting techniques. But I think it's time for both of us to move on. I can't take back what I did to you--believe, me if I could I would--but I can't, so I think we need to bring some sort of closure to this episode. Yes, yes, I know, I know: I sort of closed things out in my own way back on that fateful moment near the intersection of Broadway and Maple, but I think, squirrel, that maybe you're taking this a little too personally. It wasn't like I intended to run over you. Surely, most people would have been just as distracted as I was trying to be the 14th caller. I mean, come on, Disney On Ice is non-stop entertainment--on ice, no less! Okay, maybe not worth your life, but still. Regardless, you'll no doubt be satisfied to know that I was the 12th caller and didn't win the tickets, so I had to pay full price. Sucks. That should be all the retribution you need, really. You haunt me for a good week and I have to cough up sixty bucks to see my favorite Disney characters ice skate. So what do you say? Even-Steven? I hope so. I also hope the terminally-ill person assigned to deliver this message knows what they're doing. Heck, I hope she/he can just find you. Is there a special squirrel section in heaven, or is everybody integrated throughout the place? Well, too late now for these questions, I suppose. You either got this message or you didn't. Listen, all the best, please do accept my deepest apology, also please stop making those burrowing sounds under my bed at night. Thanks. God’s speed.

This post is dedicated to Chief Justice William Renquist.

an open letter to the enemy

Dear Kickball Killahs,

This notice is to inform you that we of the Badass Ballkickers don't scare easily. Your devious tactics suck donkey, and have done nothing to dampen our will or our spirit. You're trying to be tricky with all that good sportsmanship stuff. We see right through it. Like a window. A freshly cleaned window. A freshly cleaned non-tinted window. Your letter in the WAKA newsletter saying how much you "respected" and "admired" our kickball skills, and how you feel "lucky" to just to get the opportunity to play us makes us sick. We vomit all over your "kind" words. You think we're that soft? You think we're like pillows, all soft and fluffy and easy to rest your smelly heads on? Is that what you think? You think resting your smelly, thick heads on us and whispering sweet nothings about how good and awesome we are will get us all mushy like a marshmallow so that we will play badly against you come Saturday night at Legion Field? Think again. Think about something else to get your pathetic dumb minds off your stupid idiot ploy. Think about a treatment for pain--think about pre-ordering a prescription for pain because you will need it come Saturday night at Legion Field. Here's hoping you have a good health plan because the pain medication you need will be expensive, and you'll need to order a lot of it.

Sniff-sniff. You smell that? I wiped my ass with this letter before I sent it. Get use to this smell, because you'll be behind us all night long. You will be crapping in your pants a lot come Saturday night at Legion Field too. They'll be a lot of bad smells going on all over Legion Field. So bad that your eyes will sting and you'll start trying to kiss our asses and beg for us to stop beating you to pulps with our awesome kickballing skillz. You'll say "Please stop beating us to pulps!" and we'll say "But we like our freshly-squeezed Kickball Killahs juice with pulp." And then we'll put you in a glass and drink you. Guzzle you. Swallow you. Some of you will run down our chins and so we'll wipe our chins with your mama. Your mama will make a great napkin. We'll fold her up and put her back in the napkin ring when we're through. We won't wash the mama-napkin, because you never should wash your napkins after every use on account they deteriorate and lose their color quickly. It's common sense.

Speaking of which, common sense was something you clearly lacked when you thought it was a good idea to send us "good luck" cookies. We vomited on your cookies. Then we fed them to our puppies, and they vomited them up. Then we ate the puppies' vomit and we vomited some more. How dare you make us vomit so much! Nice try, fuckos, but none of us are sick anymore. We all will be in game shape come Saturday night at Legion Field. Even if we were sick we'd still destroy you. We'd destroy you, then put your bloody remains in a Petri dish for a couple weeks where we would cultivate penicillin from your lifeless goop that would make us not sick anymore. Once healthy, we'd eat your leftover goop and vomit you up again for old time's sake. Then we'd party like the bad muthas we are. Party on and on and on until the break of dawn. Then we'd all go out for pancakes.

So consider yourself warned. No doubt some crap has already started building in your pants. Maybe you should wear diapers come Saturday night at Legion Field? Maybe you should wear bonnets too and hold rattles and suck your thumbs? We'll play peek-a-boo with you for a bit and you'll smile and giggle and then we'll say "It's nap time" and you'll be like "Waaaa, me no want nappy!" and we'll say "Sorry, but it's time to sleep," and then we'll start drilling kickballs off your heads until your unconscious. That idea works for us. It's up to you. You decide how you want to be destroyed. That's the only choice you'll have. You might as well take advantage of it. Although which ever you choose it won't really matter because like the wise man said "YOUR ASS IS GRASS" come Saturday night at Legion Field.

Sincerely,
Captain C. Monks of the Badass Ballkickers

an open letter to a friend

Dear Misunderstood Genius,

We saw this coming for a long time, did we not, amigo? You have been far ahead of your time for so long, and the world has forever tried to pull you back to the rest of of the pack. You're tired. You're weary. You needed a respite. You needed a hamburger served to you by a woman in a form fitting t-shirt and hot shorts. You needed to sign her ass. You just needed to. It's how you recuperate. It's how you maintain your brilliance. You've earned this freedom, compadre. YOU'VE EARNED THIS. Not many reporters can handle the stress of television journalism like you can. A rare few can find the right informants, ask the right questions, wear a multi-pocketed, khaki fishing vest to lend an air of "hard-hitting investigative news guy" to your persona like you can. You the man, mi amore, you the man. So the world--a demographic you've done nothing but cater to during all of your professional career--is once again against you. Your character is in jeapordy, your job is in doubt, your hair is suddenly flat, your mustache less poofy. The world is a bitter critic, G, a bitter critic. I write to you today to give you my allegiance. Did you ever doubt it? Of course not, we go back too far, too long, and I still owe you money for that Mickey Rourke boxing match that fell through. (Check is in the mail. Promise.) You see, I know the real you. I've seen you crack down on the mafia, con artists, and corrupted politicians. I've seen you defend yourself against Al-Qeada factions then retire to a Kandahar whorehouse to recover. It's all part of a good days work. That is how Morrow did it. That is how Drudge does it. That is how Carson Daly only wishes he could do it. So keep fighting the good fight. Keep on pushing, mon frére. Remember to not let the bastards get you down. Remember that those who know the real score have your back. Remember to give me the number of the Hooter girl you banged by the coke machine the other night.

Stay gold, my friend. Stay gold.

Sincerely,
c monks