February 02, 2007
When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.
Subject line: your discusting
I think who ever edits or writes this site must be sooo jelouse of pretty people beacause you must be so ugly that you have to put people down i hope you are really ashamed of yourself.
I... I don't know what to say. You have held up a mirror to me, and I have looked in it, and for the first time, I have questioned the glory of what I see. It took one as brave as you to open my eyes -- the reflection I see needs nurturing, my sweet huggable tart, and I hope the person who can do this will be you. And so I beg you: Can you finish what you've started? Will you take that lint-brush to my man-suit and swipe off the fuzz of negativity that is marring its purity of color? Will you then hold my freshly plucked form against yours and swear we'll never untwine in spirit even if we must break arms in reality?
Hoping we can knit the lint into a quilt for snuggling,
Subject line: what we think of britney spears aka slutty mc skank whore
Hello. lets get straight to the point. britney spears, you are the fuggliest bitch i have ever seen you fugly ass trailor trash [REDACTED] doorknob whore. ...i never thought i could see anyone dumber than jessica simpson, but then you had that baby (who you have probably dropped on its head a few times already) and that [REDACTED] statue of you givin friggin birth on a BEAR SKIN RUG! GOD AT LEAST GET A CLASSY RUG MY GOD! by the way we all know your really a brunette, and your a disgrace to american (and tibetan) way of life. have a nice day, try not to get [REDACTED] too many times on the way home from yo daddies kickass trailor.
You are a godsend, a tall drink of water in the desert of modern interior design. So few people these days understand the value of a really exquisite, tasteful area rug. And yet here you are, preaching the Gospel, as if you peered into my psyche and saw that it needed the healing miracle of a soft 7-by-9 throw. And doorknobs? I love interesting doorknobs. Listen, I'm about to go out on a limb here, Friend -- would you like to go shopping with me? Maybe a day at the Pacific Design center, where we could stroll arm-in-arm through lush fabrics and floor coverings, and perhaps steal a hug or five in front of some velvet drapes? Please don't say no. I've had a taste of your warm form in my tender arms and to deny me a fuller meal would make this a cold winter indeed.
Begging you'll warm up my discontent into steaming hot satisfaction,
Subject line: (no subject)
When greeted with the brusque, "Hey," some people quip, "'Hey' is for horses"; I prefer, "'Hey' is for horses... that we are riding along the beach, awash in the ambiance, hands clasped, a picnic basket and a wicked embrace on a plaid blanket awaiting us at our destination."
[Of course, that scolding little "'Hey' is for horses" nugget only works if you say it out loud, because obviously a horse's hay is spelled differently and when written it looks insane, and oh, now I fear you think I am a silly stallion indeed -- curse the fact that we're not together, whispering sweet nothings into each other's chests during a torrid clinch!]
I need to know more. I have to know more. Tell me everything. Am I to be your "girl" in some kind of saucy role-play? Will it involve a French maid's costume? Dare I hope we might play some sort of kinky Charlotte's Web, in which we laugh, cry, hug, and learn important lessons about how to do all three at the same time while spending a respectful day without bacon?
Please advise, as I have some skirts that need tailoring.
Ladylike kisses smothered in man-scent,
Subject line: Hello George!
Hello George if you want a little pore nice girl ,please enter on your yahoo messenger to talk with me. My id is [REDACTED].
Oh, your id. Your saucy, naughty id. We all have one of those salacious ids, just begging us to give in to its every delicious whim. To do that, though, would be to ignore the life's work of Sigmund Freud, and all his blood, sweat, and tears would be for naught. As he's dead and I therefore can't hug his forgiveness for such a transgression, I am forced to suggest that we wait before we fully expose our ids' desires.
Don't be upset, pet. No actual space between us could dull the rich, dizzying potency of our electric virtual embrace. I have but to close my eyes and you're in my arms, adorable little pores and all. Let us live this way, moving slowly toward each other, rather than dive into the pool of impulsive sin and longing that our id is so rapidly trying to fill. After all, to plunge in feet-first would be to get water up our noses. Coughing can really harsh a hug's delirious buzz.
So be strong! We'll find each other in our dreamspace.
Swimming breaststroke toward you through the saucy waters of our love,