Business in the front, Party in the back
Dear Mr. Jack Daniel Henderson,
In no personal way whatsoever, with no malicious harm intended, and by no practical or legitimate fault of you own, I sincerely wish you would just drop dead already.
It's not because you have a name so much more infinitely better than mine in any possible regard. It beats mine in terms of pertinence and longevity in relation to a nation riddled with an obsession for nostalgia and nostalgicky things, as well as alcoholism. It also beats my name in terms of the distinct possibility that one day there will be a court ruling that will enable you to get a payment from the Jack Daniel distillery to reimburse you for all the free advertising you've been giving to the world and the schoolkids at Smackover High School (While it's not in the works yet, I pray that it is for the sheer comedic value that would come from the nutshot it would be to American corporations). While I will admit that when I first discovered your full name my jaw did drop, a reaction that was only previously elicited when I discovered there was a man in the United States Army named Optimus Prime, this is not the real reason I want you to die.
I don't feel this insatiable urge for you to croak because I have this odd feeling that you don't like Daft Punk, the Arctic Monkeys, or have ever sat on the food of a decrepit 1994 Dodge Intrepid, 3.3 liter v6 watching a barge go through the lock at Toad Suck dam and wonder if any dirty, perverted minds out there would find something so blatantly mechanical and lifeless to be a euphemism for vaginal penetration. An addendum would be that I have a feeling that you think the basic concept behind the show "Knights of Prosperity" is funny, but refuse to actually watch it for some reason (I myself have too much crap so I have my legitimate rationalization for my worthless life, thank you sir.) Also, I am willing to put money on it that you think it was a crying shame that Orson Welles' last role was the voice of Unicron in the original Transformers movie and that you use the cliche "so bad it's good" way too much for your own good.
Please don't get me wrong. I know you have done much good in the world, and I have taken it into account. For instance, you lived during the apex of many of the best rock acts in the history of the entire history of historical past-noteworthy-events. In addition, there is the distinct possibility you're the Duke of New York, A #1. I'm even willing to take into consideration that you slew the Iceman those climbers found in France or Italy or Azerbaijan in the 1990s because he made a pass at your wife, which proves your powers not only reach into the here-and-now but also into the freakin' Bronze Age. Despite these noteworthy accomplishments, I still just want you to die already.
Seriously, already. Just keel over for the love of Christ. I've wanted someone to die more in my life, and out of more friendly reasons at that.
You see, I've heard something about you Mr. Jack Daniel Henderson (May I call you Mr. Jack Daniel Henderson? It loses something if I don't spell it all out. Mr. Jack Henderson. Mr. J. D. Henderson. Mr. Daniel Henderson. Mr. Jack. No, not as awesome as Mr. Jack Daniel Henderson). I've heard it from Jacob Oliver, and I think that once I heard it from my brother Chase "I love Concussions" Green. By now, this epic idea must have been scrawled into the cosmos, much in the same way that Ziggy Stardust's very essence was drawn from the stars. That is a horrible analogy. Let me try again.
By now, this epic idea must have been permanently and visibly impressed, merged, and possbily, subordinated the very fabric of the space-time continuum, the same from which the enigmatic Twinkie came into existence from, and from whence Roger Waters got the phenomenal idea to make an opera about the French Revolution. Indeed, this event which you have planned trumps all end-times including, but not limited to, Ragnarok, the Tribulation and/or Rapture, the Zoroastrian Final Judgement, and the Islamic Qiyamah. So, no pressure or anything, but you have planned a soiree so good it trumps the apocalypse itself. Ya know, just don't choke.
Dude, you want to have a kegger and blast Journey's opus "Wheel In The Sky" at a reception following your funeral. I can't wait for that, and neither can you.
In no personal way whatsoever, with no malicious harm intended, and by no practical or legitimate fault of you own, I sincerely wish you would just drop dead already.
It's not because you have a name so much more infinitely better than mine in any possible regard. It beats mine in terms of pertinence and longevity in relation to a nation riddled with an obsession for nostalgia and nostalgicky things, as well as alcoholism. It also beats my name in terms of the distinct possibility that one day there will be a court ruling that will enable you to get a payment from the Jack Daniel distillery to reimburse you for all the free advertising you've been giving to the world and the schoolkids at Smackover High School (While it's not in the works yet, I pray that it is for the sheer comedic value that would come from the nutshot it would be to American corporations). While I will admit that when I first discovered your full name my jaw did drop, a reaction that was only previously elicited when I discovered there was a man in the United States Army named Optimus Prime, this is not the real reason I want you to die.
I don't feel this insatiable urge for you to croak because I have this odd feeling that you don't like Daft Punk, the Arctic Monkeys, or have ever sat on the food of a decrepit 1994 Dodge Intrepid, 3.3 liter v6 watching a barge go through the lock at Toad Suck dam and wonder if any dirty, perverted minds out there would find something so blatantly mechanical and lifeless to be a euphemism for vaginal penetration. An addendum would be that I have a feeling that you think the basic concept behind the show "Knights of Prosperity" is funny, but refuse to actually watch it for some reason (I myself have too much crap so I have my legitimate rationalization for my worthless life, thank you sir.) Also, I am willing to put money on it that you think it was a crying shame that Orson Welles' last role was the voice of Unicron in the original Transformers movie and that you use the cliche "so bad it's good" way too much for your own good.
Please don't get me wrong. I know you have done much good in the world, and I have taken it into account. For instance, you lived during the apex of many of the best rock acts in the history of the entire history of historical past-noteworthy-events. In addition, there is the distinct possibility you're the Duke of New York, A #1. I'm even willing to take into consideration that you slew the Iceman those climbers found in France or Italy or Azerbaijan in the 1990s because he made a pass at your wife, which proves your powers not only reach into the here-and-now but also into the freakin' Bronze Age. Despite these noteworthy accomplishments, I still just want you to die already.
Seriously, already. Just keel over for the love of Christ. I've wanted someone to die more in my life, and out of more friendly reasons at that.
You see, I've heard something about you Mr. Jack Daniel Henderson (May I call you Mr. Jack Daniel Henderson? It loses something if I don't spell it all out. Mr. Jack Henderson. Mr. J. D. Henderson. Mr. Daniel Henderson. Mr. Jack. No, not as awesome as Mr. Jack Daniel Henderson). I've heard it from Jacob Oliver, and I think that once I heard it from my brother Chase "I love Concussions" Green. By now, this epic idea must have been scrawled into the cosmos, much in the same way that Ziggy Stardust's very essence was drawn from the stars. That is a horrible analogy. Let me try again.
By now, this epic idea must have been permanently and visibly impressed, merged, and possbily, subordinated the very fabric of the space-time continuum, the same from which the enigmatic Twinkie came into existence from, and from whence Roger Waters got the phenomenal idea to make an opera about the French Revolution. Indeed, this event which you have planned trumps all end-times including, but not limited to, Ragnarok, the Tribulation and/or Rapture, the Zoroastrian Final Judgement, and the Islamic Qiyamah. So, no pressure or anything, but you have planned a soiree so good it trumps the apocalypse itself. Ya know, just don't choke.
Dude, you want to have a kegger and blast Journey's opus "Wheel In The Sky" at a reception following your funeral. I can't wait for that, and neither can you.
posted by .venganza. at
3:04 AM
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