I’ve also decided to donate $14,000 to the Muslim/Christian/Jewish Dialogue Project. The MCJDP is an upstart NGO headquartered in D.C. run by three brothers, each of whom has chosen a different religious path. The three brothers are hoping to build a three-in-one mosque/church/synagogue with services on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Should be interesting, to say the least. Please remind our misguided older brother that he’ll never get the best of me. I’m not as stupid as Harvey thinks.
My Julia has run into a bit of trouble again, unfortunate really. She’s always been a troublesome child. After my conference in Dusseldorf, I’ll be on the next flight to Boston with the hopes of ousting her from the mental institute she is currently rotting away in. Let’s pray she can last a few more days. It’s a very important conference.
With love,
Will K. Johnson
* * *
Clara,
A grand entrance is essential for any global NGO conference. For the United Nations’ NGO Conference here in Portland, I decided to drop in via a parachute with the InvestHarveyJohnson logo on it. Complications arose when the parachute caught on one of Portland’s ubiquitous lampposts. Mistaking me for a terrorist, Homeland Security officers surrounded my dangling body with guns drawn. I was struck by a projectile filled with tear gas before my assistant Terrance (who was also parachuting with me), was able to land safely and explain who I was.
Not to be deterred, I unhooked myself from the harness and was caught by a bright ensemble of Portland firemen who were neither friendly nor strong. I still have a bruise on my torso from the tear gas canister, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that I entered the conference to a standing ovation. The Johnson family – our little black sheep included – was the top philanthropists of last year! Go us!
In related news, I’m well aware that Will wants me to apologize for what happened five years ago, but I refuse to give in to his little brother bullying. I’m supposed to be the bully, and I can barely even get a word in edgewise, let alone a charitable donation without being jousted and prodded like a prisoner at Guantanamo.
Yet, in the spirit of charity, and a little chagrined at Will’s recent donation to the MCJDP and FecalTruthWatch (of which I am most disgusted, I told you he was competing with me), I decided to go a different route this time around. Rather than donate using my usual name, and then seeing Will donate $4,000 more to an opposing charity, I’ve started donating under the pseudonym, J. Harvey. Hopefully, he will never know the difference.
Using this nom de plume, I contributed $12,000 to a Portland organization called Pups to Pops, which places older dogs with widowed men to provide companionship. I also donated $30,000 to Enemas for Understanding, a Seattle-based NGO that leads conflict resolution talks while the recipients receive coffee enemas.
This brings me to my next topic.
While coffee enemas have been discredited by some, I wholeheartedly believe that the coffee bean has a unique way of stimulating the exit point of the gastrointestinal tract. It also cleanses the liver – a feat saline enemas only wish they could accomplish! Salt is out, coffee is in. You heard it here first.
In fact, the enema machine in my RV, a ColonTherapy 6000 produced by JohnsonMed (of course), has been pumping lukewarm coffee into me for a week now and I must say, my system feels much cleaner. There’s definitely a little more bounce to my step, and I’ve lost two pounds since modifying my morning ritual.
Please tell your daughter that I’m so proud to hear she got her first tattoo. I’ve always enjoyed Emma. She’s an artist type, like me. The first tattoo is a step in the right direction if you ask me (a man with three tattoos and a soon-to-be tattoo of a panther when I find the time). I wouldn’t mention the tattoo to Will if I were you. You know how he feels about body modification.
Yours,
Harvey K. Johnson
~Message dictated to Terrance during a morning enema. Clara, I’m worried about Harvey’s fascination with coffee enemas. I’ve been trying to say something to him about it but he refuses to listen. Please mention it to him in your next e-mail. Miss you, Terrance.~
* * *
Dearest Clara,
Julia is fine aside from a few chunks of hair she pulled out during her mental breakdown. We’ve opted to get her a new haircut, something New Agey to cover up the side of her head. It’s kind of a Flock of Seagulls meets Lady Gaga look, but a little more refined. It should be more refined, the haircut cost me over $500! Anyhow, after I settle things here in Boston, I’m off to Montreal for a conference on breaking gastronomical discoveries.
I was saddened to learn that Emma got a tattoo. It really is a shame. She’s your daughter, and you should be in better control of her personal choices. Marking one’s body with images and words that don’t mean anything is the downfall of humanity. Take our older brother for instance, since when does Harvey speak Latin? The man can’t even read the tattoo across his own wretched shoulder!
In charity news: I’ve donated $16,000 dollars to the Portland eUthanize Patrol (PUP). The outbreak of dogs in the city, or so I’ve heard, is no laughing matter. PUP is a trusted organization started by a friend of mine, Conrad Batiste, and I know the money will be put to good use. I hate to say it, as I know some people won’t agree, but the mutts must go.
I’ve been alerted by FecalTruthWatch that there has been an outbreak of coffee enemas in the Seattle area. I’ve been following the matter closely, and have wired money to Enemies of Enemas, a non-profit specializing in gastronomical truths. It’s a small sum, $34,000, but I’m hoping it will go a long way.
I know very well that you’ve been corresponding with Harvey. My only hope is that you can talk some sense into our dear older brother. An apology isn’t a hard thing to muster, especially when the guilty party is clear.
I gave him the option of apologizing in an e-mail, which I think will be easier for him. I’m happy to hear that we’re the most charitable family of last year, but it would be nice to hear this as a family, rather than through a string of e-mails.
Alas,
Will K. Johnson
* * *
Clara,
I appreciate you sending a birthday present from me to Little Jack. I’ve been so wrapped up with my tour of the Wild West that I forgot that my little shining star turned six yesterday. You always were a great sister and I thank you for this.
Good news first, bad news later.
The good news: I’ve safely arrived in Boise to check in on the Idaho Diversity Project, a non-profit seeking to relocate minorities to the Gem State. Surprisingly, almost 84% of Idaho is white, which makes it one of the least ethnically diverse states in the Union. (It’s whiter than snow up here!)
By moving inner city youth and ethnic minorities from places such as Compton, Baltimore, New York, Chicago, Houston, New Orleans, Atlanta, and the Cherokee Nation to Boise, the IDP is taking great strides in diversifying the city. With my $100,000 donation, the IDP will be able to provide even more scholarships and lay the groundwork for a state of the art cultural education center.
I must admit that it pained me to see Will supporting PUP and Enemies of Enemas. I don’t know how our little black sheep figured out my nom de plume, but I suspect he has someone trailing me. I’ve been extra careful at night and I’m thinking of hiring a security guard just in case I’m being followed. Terrance doesn’t think this is a good idea but, ultimately, a man must make his own decisions to protect himself.
The bad news: my morning rituals have backfired. I’m dictating this message to Terrance from the confines of a hospital bed. I suffered a minor heart attack due to electrolyte imbalances. The doctor seems to think this is a result of my coffee enemas, but I’m not so sure. He also seems to think I’m suffering from anemia, which I staunchly deny. Regardless, I’ve been instructed to increase my iron consumption or face a blood transfusion.
Once I get out, I’ll likely move away from the ColonTherapy6000 and start using an old-fashion Mu
rphy drip for my morning enemas. Please don’t tell Will about my little heart problem. I’ll be fine in a few days.
With love,
Harvey K. Johnson
~Message dictated to Terrance at the hospital. Clara, your brother is downplaying his minor heart attack. The colon cleansing has finally taken its toll. While he might seem cheerful in this e-mail, he’s become irritable and hard to manage. Please advise. Glad to hear Emma got her nose pierced, I always wanted to do that. Yours forever, Terrance~
* * *
Dearest Clara
I arrived in Montreal two days ago. What an impressive city (aside from the fact that not enough people speak English here). Julia is with me on a much needed sabbatical from Harvard Medical School. She’s out right now, with a Canadian man she met on the Montreal Metro. I hope she uses protection.
The Gastronomical Conference took a turn for the worse when a competitor debuted a rectal thermometer manageable by a smart phone app. In any event, I just got off the phone with the R&D department at JohnsonMed and they’ve been instructed to create a smart phone virus that will essentially render the app useless. Once the app company comes under public scrutiny, we will purchase the company, rebrand the product with the JohnsonMed label, and re-release it into the market. Devilish, I know, but JohnsonMed is the leader in colon products, medicines and gastrointestinal tract research, and we will remain so. Over my dead colon will this fact change. JohnsonMed will always be the industry standard in colon care.
In philanthropic news, I donated $104,000 dollars to the Boise Police Department to purchase new surveillance equipment. With the crime that is projected to grow in Boise over the next two years, I felt it was my civic duty to give the police some leveraging power. Let’s hope this makes the city a safer place.
Please tell Harvey to avoid putting anything else into his rectum. The coffee enemas were one thing, but the insertion of a Murphy drip by anyone less than a trained professional can lead to gastrointestinal perforation. I’m afraid Terrance isn’t as qualified as he thinks he is. It’s a downhill spiral from there. Once the conference finishes, I’ll join Harvey to monitor his recovery. Please don’t tell him of my pending plans. I know you are too busy handling Emma’s wild behavior to make it to our brother’s bedside.
Speaking of Terrance, I should probably tell you that I’ve been paying him for the last five years to track Harvey’s donations, his whereabouts, and to secretly forward me his daily diary entries. I did this because I care deeply for my older brother.
With love,
Will K. Johnson
* * *
Clara,
Are you ready for the truth regarding what happened at Melinda Gates’ dinner party five years ago? I ask because as I lie here in Salt Lake City on my deathbed, I’m reminded of how trivial life has become.
Will and I arrived together in my yacht, as the party was held on the Gates’ private island off the coast of Belize. We arrived on time and a little weary from the scorching South American sun which, in my opinion, is hotter than the sun over the northern hemisphere.
While docking, we got into an argument about who should be the first to exit the yacht. As the oldest and the owner of the vessel, I felt it was I who should be the first to exit. Will, as the richer of the two (at least on paper), felt that he should be the first to disembark.
What started as a debate quickly escalated into a name calling session followed by a flogging by Terrance, who had grown tired of our brotherly bickering. I quickly fired Terrance for striking us and Will subsequently hired him as his new assistant. I then offered Terrance more money to come back to work for me and he obliged.
Unfortunately, things continued to escalate. Racing to the accommodation ladder, Will tripped and fell overboard into the ocean. He has told many people since that his slip into the ocean was my fault, that it was I who tripped him, but this simply isn’t true.
No matter how much I despise my younger brother, I would never trip Will, especially on a boat. I’d never wish a spill into shark infested waters on anyone! Besides that, I love my brother! I can’t apologize for something I didn’t do. It isn’t a matter of pride – it’s a matter of principle.
In what might be my last charitable act, I donated $32,000 to a Salt Lake City start-up called Gabriel’s Horn, which seeks to expose abuses by the Mormon Church. It is important for organizations such as Gabriel’s Horn to get the funding they deserve. Also, I was quite fond of the dreadlocked girl running the organization and her chest tattoo of a skull with flaming eyes. Beautiful art, really.
The Murphy drip, as you likely know by now given the way I started this email, didn’t go according to plan. I’ve suffered a stroke and have lost the ability to move the left side of my face. My boyish looks are diminishing rapidly, and I’ve yet to call my only son to say goodbye. If I’m not able to say goodbye, please say goodbye to Little Jack for me and let him know his father cared dearly for him.
Terrance will forward you the information necessary regarding my will and estates. Also, Terrance’s cell phone is out of battery. Please do not hesitate to call the LDS Hospital and ask about my condition. I’m afraid time is running out.
With love forever and the best wishes to my dear sister,
Harvey K. Johnson
~Message dictated to Terrance at the LDS Hospital. Clara, I’m sorry things have turned out this way. Also, I think it’s time you and I take a break. It’s hard enough handling both your brother’s affairs, but to also juggle a phone sex relationship with their sister is something I can no longer handle. The Johnson family has plagued me for seven years now. I need a vacation and a new job. Hello Southeast Asia. Please understand, Terrance. Don’t write me, I’ll write you.~
* * *
Dearest Clara,
I’ll be boarding the airplane to Salt Lake City in twenty minutes. Due to the urgency in which I had to purchase the ticket, I was only able to buy a second class seat. Hopefully, I’ll be able to change seats. God forbid a baby starts crying!
Though it might be true that I tripped on the boat, I still think that Harvey should apologize for the five years of anguish that has plagued our family. I feel like I lost a friend during this dark period. On the eve of losing my older brother, I toil in misery, only to be relegated to second class and force-fed peanuts and a single cup of soda or sugary juice. Sad, really. My fate is now in the hands of God and Southwest Airlines and Harvey’s medical condition. I do hope that I get to see him before he passes.
In unrelated news, Julia will be staying in Montreal having moved in with her new Canadian boyfriend. I hope that his jazz-metal band is as successful as he convinced me it would be. Who would have thought Thelonious Monk would sound good with double bass drums and seven-string guitars? I must admit, I was slightly impressed, but not impressed enough to purchase the CD. Hopefully, others will feel differently.
In philanthropy news, I’ve donated $36,000 to Brigham Young University. The scholarship is intended to go towards children of polygamous origins and will be available starting in the fall. It’s important the children of all races, religions, colors and creeds get a chance at a solid, unbiased education.
The plane is boarding soon. I’m expecting trouble, as you know, so I’d better get in line with the other animals. I’ll give Harvey your best when I see him if he’s still alive. Tell Emma hello for me and remind her that piercing scars are permanent.
Your brother no matter what class I travel,
Will K. Johnson
Feeding Governor Christie: A Love Story[17]
My god it is a monstrous task.
Jabba the Hut’s fatter cousin’s daily intake pales in comparison to the uber-American practically faux-conservative Governor Christie, who is sitting at the end of a long table surrounded by his henchmen while having food brought to him by a man named Adam, whose girlfriend’s name, not surprisingly, is Eve.
The Governor’s henchmen, all white as snow, are wearing tarps as to prevent foo
d or saliva from his mouth from splashing on them. Everyone is laughing jovially, avoiding splashback and trying to get a word in with the governor.
‘He wants more!’ Adam kicks open the sliding door that leads to the kitchen of the Hilton Upper Echelon in New Jersey. ‘More, I say, more!’
His girlfriend, Eve, also a caterer, gives him an icy glare.
‘What is it now?’ Adam is holding several plates’ worth of food balanced all the way up his sleeves. His brow is covered in beads of sweat. He’s working his ass off.
‘Really, Adam?’ she asks.
‘Really what?’
‘The good governor of the State of New Jersey is hungry and we’d better feed him!’ the chef yells, perhaps a little overzealously.
Eve huffs, ‘Liking your ex’s photos again?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Adam sets a few spent plates on a conveyer belt running towards the dishwashers – all of whom are illegals – but nice anyway and always on time.
‘Like you don’t know,’ Eve says, whipping past him. She slams into the revolving door carrying with her a tray of bacon-wrapped lobster claws that have been deep-fried in a special buttermilk batter flown in from California that very morning. All it takes is a quick glance over her shoulder for Adam to know she’s peeved.
‘She looks pissed, man,’ the chef says. He’s a burly guy, thick like a knot.
‘I don’t have time for this today,’ Adam says quickly.
‘Agreed. Apologize now or face the consequences. The good governor usually feeds from twelve to two. I need you with your game face on, Adam. Some nutjob from Texas is here having lunch with him.’
‘The one with the revolver hanging from his belt and the pair of glasses?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Former Governor Rick Perry.’
‘Who?’ the chef asks Adam.
‘Never mind.’
‘Well, it’s an important meeting anyway; some would say a meeting of the minds. The point is…’
Dear NSA: A Collection of Politically Incorrect Short Stories Page 6
