Dear Luke, We Need to Talk, Darth
Page 9
I wish I knew more about what goes on beyond the trees but I am unable to explore beyond our yard. Frankly, those woods scare me to death. I mean, one talking monkey I can handle, but those woods are full of talking birds, talking crocodiles, talking squirrels, and this odd talking fox. These things should not talk. And they certainly should not be bilingual.
I grew up in Los Angeles. Typical Catholic upbringing, nothing too surprising. After high school, I went to UCLA and had a very happy and stable life, despite my odd first name (“Mami” or “Mommy,” depending on the native language of who’s asking). After college I met my husband. He had an opportunity to move here, coach youth soccer, and apparently have no other job. This seemed strange to me, but I was willing to give it a try. We were young and in love.
Soon after that, Dora was born. It wasn’t her enormous football-shaped head that concerned me. It was that as she grew, she began speaking to people who weren’t there. I know that imaginary friends are a perfectly normal part of childhood, but this was different. Dora would speak to an entire group of people, almost like an audience. And she would demand things of them: “Say map! Say map!” It was like super-bossy, group-oriented schizophrenia. But she seemed happy in her way.
Oh yes, I should say something about her map and her backpack. Or rather Map and Backpack. I don’t know how these things came into our lives, but she works with (I wouldn’t say “owns”) a map and a backpack that are capable of human speech. They never eat anything or excrete anything. Backpack is incapable of independent movement, but Map can spring into the air and unfurl for a few seconds at a time before, well, re-inserting himself into Backpack.
They’re always very happy and perky around Dora, which is a blessing. With me, it’s something of a different story. I’ll look in on Dora while she sleeps and Backpack will wake up and say, “You do not touch the girl and you do not touch us. You do as you are told, human woman.” Meanwhile, Map just hisses a warning sound. I don’t like to go in there.
So instead of sending my daughter to school, yes, I allow her out into the woods with a monkey. I think they cross rivers sometimes and go over mountains. I like to think they help people. She’s said something about helping baby animals so that’s good, right?
What will become of Dora? Perhaps one day she’ll want to leave the woods, make human friends, and join society. Or it might go the other way and she’ll just spend all of her time in the woods, become one with them. Marry the monkey—hell, I don’t know, makes as much sense as anything else—and I’ll never see her again.
All I can offer Dora is love, support, the occasional meal when she shows up at the house, and some attempt at an optimistic point of view about her fate.
Thank you for your time and for this chance to explain my circumstances.
Sincerely,
Mommy the Explorer
Dear Elvis,
You dick.
You’ve put me in a no-win situation and I’m more than a little bit upset about it. You treat me like crap, you insult me, but yet I am, unavoidably, a hound dog. Thus, I have no choice but to love you with blind and eternal devotion. And while that is my physiological imperative, it’s not my choice.
I give you loyalty and affection. I prostrate myself before you, but, as I understand the whole man-dog dynamic, you’re supposed to love me too. I’m supposed to be your best friend. But instead, you publicly announce that I’m no friend of yours. You sing it at the top of your lungs, in fact, while shaking your ass. This relationship is broken, Elvis, and given the capabilities of our individual species, it’s up to you to fix it.
I admit it: I do cry all the time. I think a doctor would call it severe clinical depression, if you ever took me to a doctor, like responsible owners do. I wake up in the morning and there’s this massive cloud of despair hanging over me. I eat some dog food, lap up water, lick myself a bit, and it’s still there. It never leaves me, Elvis. Wouldn’t you cry all the time? But why am I even telling you this? You’ve probably already crumpled this note into a ball to play crumpled-up-paper basketball with Sonny and Red. They’re letting you win, by the way.
If you could get me on some sort of prescription, I bet I would feel better. I’m sure they make Prozac for dogs. Pack it inside some liver so I’ll eat it. Heck, even an exercise program. Hey, you know what? Maybe if you were just nice to me once in awhile. How about that? Told me I was a good dog, scratched behind my ears, something. Anything. Show me just the smallest fraction of warmth that you give to your fans and Priscilla and Angie Dickinson.
If any of that were to happen then maybe I could fulfill what appears to be the pivotal prerequisite for your friendship, Elvis, namely, the catching of a rabbit.
Tell me, is that a Mississippi thing? Judging others by their ability to successfully hunt and obtain wild animals? Are you transferring some sort of unresolved parental-approval issue to me, your dog? It seems pretty screwed up, but whatever. Please know this: there’s nothing I would love more than to chase down a rabbit, taste the fur in my mouth, see the little feet kick, and then snap its neck with one swift shake. But I can’t. I can’t catch a rabbit while dark thoughts echo to my very core. I can’t catch a rabbit when I’m crying all the time. It’s a cycle.
What I’m saying is that you have the power (some would even say the responsibility) to help me. Get me the attention I need. Help me catch a rabbit, King, and help me give you the companionship you need. Because even though I think you’re an irresponsible, petty, judgmental, emotional tyrant, you will always be my friend.
Sincerely,
Your Hound Dog
REJECTED
PROPOSALS
SUPER BOWLS XVI TO XX
SUPER BOWL XVI—JANUARY 24, 1982
• A proposal by the air traffic controllers fired by President Reagan after going on strike was too terrifying to read all the way through.
• The success of the heartwarming film On Golden Pond led to a proposal by the film’s producers that the Committee initially found very intriguing. Reading it more closely, we found that stars Henry Fonda and Katharine Hepburn were too ill to participate in a halftime recreation of the film, and Jane Fonda cited a scheduling conflict, as did child actor Doug McKeon. This meant that the entire act would consist of Dabney Coleman playing all the parts with the assistance of some sock puppets. His last-minute addition of fireworks seemed extraneous and confusing.
• Since the game was to be in Detroit, the Committee just did a salute to the Motown sound.
SUPER BOWL XVII—JANUARY 30, 1983
• Tony Randall submitted a proposal to perform a retrospective of the late John Belushi’s best work, including the Samurai, Bluto from Animal House, and Jake Blues (to be performed with Jack Klugman as Elwood). In order to make his case, the normally trim Randall had packed on 100 pounds through a high-calorie diet and really looked the part. Unfortunately, the copious amounts of drugs Randall had also been consuming as part of his preparation made the proposal less of a serious plan and more of a series of screams and arched eyebrows.
• Committee again went local in hiring the Los Angeles Super Drill Team to perform at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena.
SUPER BOWL XVIII—JANUARY 22, 1984
• The Committee appreciates classic literature as much as anyone but felt the Tribute to George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four was a bit over the top. Among the problems:
• Commissioner Pete Rozelle refused to appear on the Jumbotron as Big Brother.
• The idea of periodically flashing messages such as “The L.A. Raiders have ALWAYS been at war with the Philadelphia Eagles”—when the opponent was obviously the Washington Redskins—seemed like a good literary tribute but a confusing way to keep score in an important football game.
• Converting complicated football rules to Newspeak seemed problematic.
• Steve Guttenberg would not agree to play Winston Smith and anyone else would seem like something of a letdown.
• Went with Uni
versity of Florida and Florida State University marching bands, despite the fact that, when the Committee thought about it for half a minute, people don’t enjoy marching bands.
SUPER BOWL XIX—JANUARY 20, 1985
• Proposal received for show featuring Ghostbusters played by Prince and Michael Jackson capturing Clara “Where’s the beef?” Peller was rejected for lacking focus. Oddly, it appeared to have been submitted by Andy Kaufman who died months earlier.
• Air Force performers hired instead.
SUPER BOWL XX—JANUARY 26, 1986
• Proposal to stage a concert featuring all members of the British charity effort Band Aid and its American equivalent, USA for Africa, showed a great deal of promise as it would feature nearly every top name in music coming together at one time. The proposal was initially approved and the group assembled for top-secret rehearsals. Problems soon arose, however, including conflicting egos, creative differences, and a letter from hungry children in Africa saying, “Yes, we knew it was Christmastime. We’re hungry, not stupid,” which cast a bit of a pall on the proceedings. One by one, performers dropped out, ultimately leaving only Dan Aykroyd, Kim Carnes, and two thirds of Bananarama to perform.
• At this point, the show was called off and the Committee hired the group Up With People, which was hanging out in the lobby anyway.
PAPERS FOUND IN THE BACKPACKS OF STUDENTS AT THE HIGH SCHOOL IN TWILIGHT WHO ARE MONSTERS BUT NOT VAMPIRES OR WEREWOLVES
Dear Parents or Guardians of Imhotep Johnson (mummy, grade 11),
As part of a newly adopted school policy, I am obligated under district regulations to report any incident of bullying or potential bullying. Such an incident occurred today during our 5th period Physical Education class.
We had concluded a game of dodgeball, a game in which your son does not excel. He is far too slow to dodge things and seems prone to simply staggering around with his arms extended. As you can imagine, this leads to him and others like him (meaning the other mummy children) being quickly tagged and eliminated from the game. He does not take these events well and will often stagger toward the student who had gotten him out muttering what sounds like curses. But I don’t mean curses in the traditional swearing sense, more like ominous, guttural curses in a language I do not understand. We held him back but it was not easy because he has tremendous strength. Agility, no. Strength, absolutely yes.
The bad feelings from that incident carried over to the locker room as other boys teased Im for never showering. Per district policy, we cannot force a student to shower, but the boys began to demand to know what was under Im’s bandages. He tried to mind his own business and that’s when some of the larger boys tried to unravel him, kind of like you might with a roll of toilet paper or Scotch tape.
It wasn’t until he opened his mouth and unleashed swarms of bees that they left him alone. It did the job in repelling the boys but, of course, then we had a locker room full of ancient Egyptian bees. Not an ideal situation.
I have enclosed a pamphlet on bullying and the principal has been made aware of today’s events. I hate to be a cliché gym teacher here, but I do think if Imhotep could get a little more active in class—snap a few towels back, you know?—that might go a long way.
Thanks,
Coach
* * *
Becky,
Did U hear about lunch? They have a new rule or whatevs that you have to eat something if you want to sit in the caf! So stupid! What are we supposed to do with everyone at our table?! We NEED that time together to talk about our DAY! Hello?! This school is so full of poseurs and skanks and other forms of monster that we NEED to get together just to survive.
Jessica
* * *
Becks,
Got yer note. I think we should totes do that as a protest. I’ll talk to everyone. Tomorrow. Lunch. It’s on!
J
* * *
B
Cannot BELIEVE we got called into the principal’s office for that. So LAME! Like everything at this lame school. I mean, they wanted us to eat in the cafeteria so we totally DID! Is it our fault that the tater tots and corn dogs just came tumbling out again from the bottoms of our rib cages? No! HELLO?! SKELETONS!
Anyhow. Lame. Like everything.
Do you think I’m getting fat? I think I’m a total porker.
Jess
* * *
Haunted
a poem by Spooky McGhostie
I am here
I am NOT HERE
I am in 3rd period American history class
I love
I want to love
I want to be loved
O! Christy Sterwicki! I long for us to be together
In the world of the living or the ethereal plain in which I dwell
Yet you do not see me
Or maybe you do
O! Christy! Do you even believe in me?
O love!
Self
a poem by Spooky McGhostie
I wander these halls
These wretched halls
I need to get to English class by the time the bell rings
But the bell has already ranged for me long ago
The funeral bell rang when my body DIED
Cruel fate
Cruel DESTINY
Has decided that I must go to high school for some reason
Cannot carry books
Cannot turn in homework
DOES ANYONE EVEN KNOW I’M HERE?
I hate high school
Footballs
a poem by Spooky McGhostie
I don’t want to play on your stupid team anyway
Your team is stupid
I tried to catch the pass
No one understands me
A NOTE TO CLARK KENT FROM THE MAKER OF HIS NEW GLASSES
August 18, 1939
Dear Mr. Kent,
I am writing to you on behalf of the Central Intelligence Agency, the Metropolis Police, the League of Nations, and many other organizations who wish to remain anonymous, all of whom have a vested interest in both your safety and the safety of society in general. We all wish the continued existence of civilization did not hinge on the benevolence of a space alien but here we are. And thank you.
We understand that in your current undercover job at The Daily Planet, several people have remarked how much you look like Superman. And it’s true, Mr. Kent, that when you’re not in any kind of costume, you absolutely do. You look exactly like Superman in a suit.
Enclosed please find a set of horn-rimmed glasses. These glasses are the end product of years of research by dozens of scientists spending millions of dollars. It’s our investment in the value and efficiency of Superman, as well as in the preservation of your secret identity, Mr. Kent.
Here’s how they work:
1. Put them on.
2. No one knows you’re Superman.
That’s all you need to do. Promise.
We appreciate the tremendous work you’re doing to keep your identity secret. We have happily kept you supplied with the costuming materials you requested, including, but not limited to:
Latex bald head caps
Putty noses
“Hillbilly” teeth
Enormous fat suits
Fancy handlebar mustaches
Lumberjack beards
Football helmets
Viking helmets
Hockey masks
Wolfman outfit
Mermaid tails
Sombreros
Beautiful ladies’ gowns with many, many petticoats
Batman suits
French “fop” ensembles
Caveman suits
Frankly, Mr. Kent, some of us began to wonder how effective some of those outfits were. I mean, a fat suit. Okay. Sure. But how many French fops do you see working in downtown Metropolis? Seems especially problematic in your role as a newsman.
And with all due respect, Mr. Kent, you really weren’t able to pull off the drag outf
it all that well. It’s not just a matter of wearing women’s wear, it’s a matter of inhabiting that identity. I should point out that this was a note directly from Mr. J. Edgar Hoover himself.
We’ve also wondered, why not just walk around as Superman all day long? It’s not like someone’s just going to chuck wads of kryptonite at you while you’re walking down the street. Maybe you just want somewhere to put your wallet. You know what? Forget I said anything. That’s your business. We just want you to be happy. Because, of course, our fragile society would collapse into lawless bloody anarchy if you weren’t. Kind of speaks poorly of our society, actually, when you think about it. I’m sorry. Forget it.
But yes, the glasses. We realize they don’t look like much. They look like glasses. But they’re equipped with a tiny light beam that refracts them in such a way that it distorts your face to all who see it. In reality, you look like Superman, but to all who see you, you look more like a sort of jaundiced Walter Brennan. Won’t help you with the ladies, sorry about that.
So there you go, Mr. Kent. Take the glasses. Wear them in confidence. And thanks for bailing our asses out repeatedly.
Sincerely,
The Government
ROUGH DRAFTS OF FAMOUS MOVIE QUOTES AS FOUND IN THE TRASH CANS OF NOTABLE SCREENWRITERS
FRANCIS FORD COPPOLA, THE GODFATHER
“I’ll make him an unturndownable offer.”
“I won’t not make him an offer he can’t not accept.”
“No one can refuse an offer accompanied by a horse head in their bed, right? I’ll do that.”