“My tea’s gone cold, I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all. The morning rain clouds up my window, and I can’t see at all. Be right if I could it’ll all be great. Put your picture on my wall. It reminds me that it’s not so bad. It’s not so bad…”
Dear George,
I wrote you but you still ain’t calling. I left my cell, my pager, and instructions on how to use the phone at the bottom. I sent two letters after inauguration. You must notta got em.’ There probably was a problem at the post office or something. It must be an early indication of how literally everything’s gonna go wrong now that you’re in office. But anyways, fu.k it, what’s been up man? How’s your brother? He still think you’re an idiot? Guess what, the hooker I visit every now and then is pregnant too. I’m about to be a father. If I ever have a son, guess what I’m gonna call him? I gonna name him Junior! I read about your Labor Secretary too – I’m sorry. I had a friend who got turned down for a job at McDonald’s because of some slave she made clean the dog sh.t out of her backyard lawn. I know you probably hear this everyday, but I’m your biggest fan. I even got the speech where you called England’s Prime Minister Tony Claire. I sold it out of my bootlegging van. I got a room full of your posters and your pictures man. I like the sh.t you did with Cheney, too, that sh.t was phat. Anyways, I hope you get this. Hit me back, we can get high together. Truly yours, your biggest fan, this is Stan.
“My tea’s gone cold, I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all. The morning rain clouds up my window, and I can’t see at all. Be right if I could it’ll all be great. Put your picture on my wall. It reminds me that it’s not so bad. It’s not so bad…”
Dear George,
You still ain’t called or wrote. I hope you have a chance. I ain’t mad, I just think it’s f.cked up you don’t answer your dealer’s beeps. If you didn’t want to talk to me outside the debate, you didn’t have to. But you could’ve signed an autograph for Kathy. That’s my mother man, she’s 85 years old, and retired in Florida. We waited in the blistering cold for you for four hours and you just said no. That’s pretty sh.tty man. You’re like her f.cking idol. She voted for you, man. Well, kinda. She voted for Nader. I ain’t that mad though, I just don’t like being lied to. Remember when we met in a sketchy alley in Denver? You said if I sold you two bags of hardcore narcotics, we’d joyride together. See, I’m just like you in a way. I never left my father neither. He runs my job for me. He mixes the cocaine with baking powder, packs it into a marble, shoves it up my ass, and I smuggle it into prisons. I can relate to what you’re saying in your debate (what I can understand of it; it gets tough when you don’t make much sense), so when I have a sh.tty day, I throw the tape in the VCR, drift away and put it on. Cuz I don’t really got sh.t else, and that sh.t helps when I’m depressed. I even got a tattoo of an elephant across the chest. When I grow up, I want to have a job executing people and see how much they scream. It’s like adrenaline, their pain is such a sudden rush for me. See, everything you say is real, and I respect you cuz you do it. My mother’s jealous cuz I talk about you 24-7. But she don’t know you like I know you, G. No one does. You gotta call me man. You’ll be the biggest client I’ll ever lose, sincerely yours Stan…P.S. Al should be president too!
“My tea’s gone cold, I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all. The morning rain clouds up my window, and I can’t see at all. Be right if I could it’ll all be great. Put your picture on my wall. It reminds me that it’s not so bad. It’s not so bad…”
Dear Mr. I’m too good to call or write my fellow Americans:
This’ll be the last package of crack I ever send your ass. It’s been six months and still no word. I don’t deserve it. I assume you got my last two letters. The guy who shot up the post office said I wrote the addresses on em’ perfect. So this is my cassette I’m sending you. I hope you hear it. I’m in a yacht right now. I’m doing ninety near Kennebunkport. Hey George, I snorted a fifth of a bag of cocaine. Dare me to sail? You know that song by the Presidents of the United States of America about that guy who ate all the peaches, and could’ve shared em’, but didn’t, then they said something about a lump in his head? Well that’s kinda how this is. Lumpy. You could’ve given me peaches but it’s too late. I’m on three shots of heroin now and I’m drowsy. And all I wanted was a lousy letter or a call. I hope you know I replaced all your pictures on the wall. I love you George, we could’ve smoked crack together. Think about it. You ruined it now. I hope you can’t sleep and you cry about it. And when you dream about puppies or winning the Super Bowl or whatever your pea-brain fantasizes about I hope you scream about it. I hope your conscience eats at you and you can’t breathe with out me. And this time it won’t be from self-induced asphyxiation to get wrecked like you wanted to do in high school. See George – shut up bitch, I’m trying to talk – hey George, that’s my mother screaming in the boat, but I didn’t give her a lethal injection I just tied her up. See I ain’t like you. Cuz if she gets her feet wet in the ocean, she’ll fry better, and then she’ll die too. Well, gotta go, I’m almost at a bridge now. Oh, sh.t I forgot, how am I supposed to send this sh.t out?
“My tea’s gone cold, I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all. The morning rain clouds up my window, and I can’t see at all. Be right if I could it’ll all be great. Put your picture on my wall. It reminds me that it’s not so bad. It’s not so bad…” (Splash)
Dear Stan,
I meant to write you sooner, but I couldn’t find a crayon. Look, I’m really flattered that you would call your son that. And here’s an autograph for your mother. I wrote it on an impregnated chad. Sorry I didn’t see you at the debate. I was all high and sh.t. Don’t think I did that sh.t intentionally just to diss you. And what’s this sh.t you said about you want to have a job executing people too. I do that sh.t for fun, dog, c’mon how f.cked up is you? You got some issues, Stan, I think you need to calm down. Try not using cocaine as much, and stepping over to a lighter drug like Vicadin or Perkiset. And what’s this sh.t about Gore being the president? That psycho sh.t made him win the popular vote. I really think you and your family need each other. A family that sticks together creates a scary, Czar-like dynasty together. I hope you get to read this letter. I just hope it reaches you in time before you hurt yourself, or even worse, enter rehab. I think that you’ll be doing just fine if you relax a little. I’m glad I inspire you, but Stan, answer me one question. Do you even know how many states we have in this country? No, seriously, I need to know. There’s a take-home test sitting in front of me, and I need to pass it this time or else they won’t let me have my finger on “the button!” You know I just want you to keep doing crazy sh.t. I saw this one sh.t on the news a couple of weeks ago that made me sick. Some dude was all-high and ran for president. When he woke up from his seven-month coke-binge and search for the world’s largest bong hit, he lived in the White House. I can’t even remember his name, but his mother Barbara wrote it on my underwear. Come to think about it, his name was… it’s me…damn!
