April 17, 2008
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: who is this?
whose email is this? I don't know how i got it.
Did it ever occur to you that maybe your aura reached out and brought it to you? Sometimes, ours is not to reason why -- or how, or when, or where an e-mail address came from -- but rather to allow destiny to cradle our Inbox. If every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings, then maybe whenever the divine holy chorus of "You've Got Mail" quickens a person's pulse, it's because a lost soul has gotten some George. Today, that soul is you. Fate opened my arms and wrapped them around your quizzical torso, and we will find the answers together. And when we're not sure what the answer is on the multiple-choice test of life, we will guess "C," because that's usually right. Ask yourself: It any coincidence that "C" is for "Clooney"? No.
All of the above,
Subject line: Fugly As Hell
I'm a good looking guy. I had this ass fugly girl who was
trying to get some meat from me. She used the lame ass
line "I'm rich", "My dad who works at a church works for the
CIA", Fugly ass bitch. I wanted to hit her with a fugly tree.
That probably wouldn't do any good though, because she
was already hit with one. Fugly Ass Ho!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What fun -- a butcher who writes poetry! When your fugly tree's branches reach out and entwine me like this in so rough a hug, I simply want to crawl up and build a nest in your iambic wackameter. But listen, my relationships are built on honesty, and this is a touchy subject, but I must ask: You're not REALLY all that good-looking, are you? Please know that I cleave to people's souls and wingspans, not their faces, so this bravado from you is not necessary. Maybe you'd understand best if I tried to speak your rhythmic language? Here goes:
"My pulsing arms will hug without restraint, so drop your hate mask,
put down the tenderloin of fury and love yourself
enough to use trees and meat only for tender, warm
embraces. Do not waste energy reviling Reverend Spymaster's girl
until you can come to terms with your own self-loathing
and marinate in Sweet Georgie's healing glow."
Are we seeing eye-to-eye now? Heart-to-heart? Like Robert Wagner to your Stefanie Powers, I am chasing the mysteries of the world with you even when we're not together, and solving its spiritual crimes.
The butler did it,
Subject line: girl friend
would you go out with me?
You intrigue me. What IS gender? It's more than anatomy; it's an aura. As manly as my chest-pillow is, as strong as the wands of testosterone known as my arms might be, I do sometimes feel like my soul is splayed open like a hot-dog bun waiting for its cylindrical meat cargo. Does that make me a girl? A boy? A man? All? Who can say. Let's go for coffee and discuss over cheese danish -- you to your favorite haunt, me to mine, together yet apart. We'll have to go dutch on the check, but not on the insights.
You latte my life,
Subject line: (no subject)
I say to you, Harvey Levin...fug yourself! You are a slimy skank and a disgrace to yourself, and the legal profession. On second thought the legal profession is precisely where you belong! Bite me!!!!
Is this like one of those therapy exercises, where you find a stranger and vent to him or her about your deepest fears, frustrations, and yearnings? I'm privileged to be the sounding board, and would wrap my burly plumage around you if only this assignment didn't demand confidentiality. I imagine Harvey would read this, sip his coffee, purse his lips thoughtfully, then draw a circle around you on the transparent whiteboard of his heart -- thus bringing you in for all eternity and feeding you with his joy. Or at least, that's what I would do if I were him. I fight fire with passion, you sweet ball of fury, so keep burning your hate-incense to the quick and you will only inflame my desire to love you right out of your anger pants. Together, we will take those exclamation marks you so cherish and turn them into parentheses. Why? Because they hug.
(imagine yourself here),