Thursday, August 20, 2009

Yola's Mail

Good morning, creatures. It is I, Yola. The toaster has asked me to do something different today (while playing a U2 song, so you know it's not all roses around here. There is suffering and it is occasionally mine. Shut up, Bono). I get a number of time consuming, stupid, blather-headed, vacant, boring, brainless and forgettable questions from the public. I usually have my intern micturate on them while La Davina administers my pedicure. There are only so many hours in the day, people. Multitasking is my meat. But the toaster suggested you might be interested in what I do around here, so let's just get through this, all right?

Here's one:

"Dear Queen of the Universe: Why did you cancel my two-book contract?"

Simple. You suck. Another:

"Dear She Who Must Be Obeyed: My numbers are down. Why doesn't your publicity department do more to promote my book? Don't you love me anymore?"

Honey, that was all over months ago. Didn't you get the memo? Note to self: remodel office. Black is nice.

"Dear Yelo—"

Google Earth is so good for things like this. Zoom in, aim, and fire. It's clean and completely anonymous. Any idiot intern can download the program and my accountant loves me for it. Really, he does.

"My Beauty, Your eyes are the twelve doors to my soul …"

Now this is very promising. Starts with a hook, gets right to the point, genius use of language. And his contact information is right here.

Okay, I'm bored now. The toaster has already started playing a little Frank and I'm thinking about getting my Thursday on. Boy, hand me that phone.


  1. Dear Yola,
    How come you never answer MY letters? You know, the ones with the mysterious little grains of white powder in them. It's my latest invention, a new sugar substitute that's totally free of side effects. Stir some into your tea. Sprinkle it on your Rice Crispies. Snort it like coke, even. It'll make my day.

  2. Because I exist to make your day, is that right, Psycho? You low-bellied worm excretion.

    I did see the last intern lying on the mailroom floor in a pool of vomit. I didn't even realize we had a mailroom until the toaster mentioned we'd added a case of '62 Dom Whippit to the wine cellar. I took a wrong turn and saw all these yellow envelopes with the words "requested material" scrawled in blood under my name. While I appreciate the gesture, people, it does no good. The interns don't show me the envelopes. Hope you're happy, Psycho, ruining my coffee break like that.