Dear Michael Ian Black,
Just wanted to say thanks, bud, for writing such a stellar work of nonsense punctuated by ingenious bursts of inanity, topped by a heaping helping of oh-holy-shit-my-sides-hurt-from-laughing-so-hard-no-really-I-can’t-breathe-I-think-I’m-dying-please-call-9-1–…
I bought this book used, for about what it cost to print it, so I know you probably made no money off of my purchase, but don’t mistake my cheapness for a lack of enthusiasm for your written word.
In fact, I purchased the book in September, and finished reading it about a week later. I’m just now getting around to writing a review because it [the book, not the month of September, though it had its share of highlights as well] was just so flippin’ fantastic that my brain experienced multiple Literary Orgasms [the attending physician in the ER called it brain damage caused by prolonged use of PCP — details, details!] and am just now recovering! [at a top-tier neurological rehabilitation facility].
My point is, when I wasn’t tweaked out on sherm, I found your work to be just exceptional. And inspirational! When I’m released from prison [I should be transferred from the rehab hospital in about 4-6 weeks] [and also, that playground I plowed into with my car while flying high on angel dust was NOT THERE the day before, Isweartogod!] I plan to get me a van, customized to your exact specifications [even the fudge drawer!] and park in the CostCo parking lot [they tell me my license has been revoked] and just wait for the hotties to roll my way.
Thanks in advance for helping me to score some intense back-seat lovemaking.
p.s. You don’t know a place near Rochester where one could purchase a little supergrass, do you? Just kidding, just kidding. But no. Really. Anywhere?