Response to Ruth Britton of 3 Burns Ave. Cheadle Stockport, UK (Personal Ad)

Hey, you darling sexy little Brit Girl, you. I am a big sexy American Man who wants to make your acquaintance. There's nothing I'd like more than for us to meet, become sweethearts, fall in love and live happily ever after. But first I'd better get to know you, and you me. And I am he and we are all together. COO-COO-CA-CHOO.

Let's begin with you first. Ha. Kind of takes the pressure off me. Ha. Ok. YOU: vivacious, sexy British Girl, 23,...let's stop right there. Are you really "vivacious, sexy?" If so, how so? You aren't a tramp or sleaze. No, I can't believe that about you. No. The past is the past. And anyway, none of us is perfect.

Are you looking to jump into a beautiful friendship/relationship that could blossom into true love? Do you believe in love at first sight? Are you a radical way-out punk rock girl living on the wild side? You don't look anything like Queen Victoria or Margaret Thatcher.

Um, what's your favorite color? What's your shoe size? What are your toes like? Your ankles? I'll stop. You can describe any part of your self that you wish to disclose. I will just be happy to hear from you. Even if it's just to say "Bug off, jerk."

So, about myself you ask? Well, as you can see, I am a wild and crazy guy. I have many hobbies such as basket-weaving and breastfeeding homeless kittens. No. Actually, I am a gay Vietnam Vet biker for Jesus. And I sell crack cocaine. No. I’m sorry. I really am into sky-cliff-scuba-sailing.

Not exactly. I do like to fish. And hike. And get lost in the woods for 20 years, surviving off the bark of North facing trees. I love nature, sunsets, sunrises, quiet moments and loud rock and roll. Oh, and other forms of music. Like Latin Reggae Jazz and Ballroom Bluegrass Fiddle Music. And movie soundtracks.

I look exactly like John Lennon’s long lost 1965 child when he had that secret affair with Mary Tyler Moore. No. That didn’t happen. I bet you thought it did.

So, anyway, I have my own spacious luxury 1 bedroom pad. Ok, it’s a dump. People get killed in the parking lot. I kill ‘em. I am ruthless. That’s why they call me “El hombre que no tenga la Ruth.” No. I really must confess. I only killed eight of them. That’s it. No, nine. Or ten.

Back to the basics. I play guitar, have a car, will go far—what do you want to know? I value friendship. I believe in honesty and love. I hate hate and racism and people who roll up their toothpaste from the bottom. I am a p---

oh, crud. Me flippin’ typewriter’s on the blink again. Pop ‘round an pick me up a new ribbon, will ye, lovee? And a pint of ale from the Rose an’ Crown.

Well, I am undaunted. I am a pretty good looking guy, as guys go. But I am being honest with you, I don’t seem to do too well with the ladies. I am not a loud and obnoxious guy like Bill, so I don’t get to meet crowds of flirtatious vixens. I don’t have a girlfriend or even a steady date. I believe in relationships, not barhopping with scumbuckets.

I am doing well financially in my job at the machine shop. My pursuits and outlets are writing and music. I hope to eventually become a writer/guitarist/actor/comedian world famous celebrity. And maybe I’ll retire to Green Acres with a girl who is forced to choose between a love for city life and her love for a boring lawyer and his fanatical dreams.

I’d just love to buy a Harley-Davidson and strap my woman on the back and cruise across the United States, and after that—the world. Try not to yawn, I know it’s not as exciting as investment banking. But hey—I am a dreamer.

Let’s meet, fall in love and live our dreams together. We can sip coconut slushies in the far-flung islands of the Florida Keys and raise swamp babies. Yes. Yes. Yes. I love you. You are beautiful. I’ll never forget you. Write me, darling. Be mine. By the way, I’m a nice guy. Etc. Etc.

Love and kisses.

Your new friend forever and ever (and maybe even after that)

Andrew

Expense Account Letter (from when I was still in the cult)

MAR 19, 1989

Gentlemen:

Your expectations are simply too high! No one, including my grandmother, could get a furnace out under the conditions and stipulations you have set forth without the aid of a supernatural deity, which none of you seem to possess. So, in retrospect, I think we could have avoided this whole nasty occurrence simply by ordering more cheese sauce instead of right wing-tip shoes. Is there anything I can do to make this whole thing up?

As long as we are on the subject of tartar, there are a few pointers which I believe will reduce the residue left by most chewing tobaccos (with the exception of Wood Stain, which I believe is the main agent of Soviet aggression in Angola). All jesting aside, this is a serious matter. As a matter of fact, it is so serious that I am thinking of extending it to nine innings and settling it.

One more note on the momentum of planetary dependencies. With our current technology, it is simply not possible to note all the inter-stellar changes in a person’s diet. I see no other alternative -- amputation! In just six short weeks you, yes you, could be off of your rocker arm and into a Nice Ice Tea armchair, with full robotics.

While in Central America, I noted the movements of some strange gypsies through the streets of GuataMeatball. There was no way to avoid running up quite a tab on the lunch wagon while they were around. Here, at long last is a list of my traveling expenses:

1. Stew and Gravy   $4.98

2. Weightlifting shoes  $6.00

3. Homing pigeons (sweaters and garlic not included)   $14.00

4. Sweaters  $1.00

5. Garlic (Imported from Chesapeake, North Carolina)   $299.00

TOTAL $324.98

Thank You -- Call Again