Ken Socrates is a man of letters. As such, he appreciates any However, should the rare occasion arise that Ken finds
Hello!!!
How are you? My name is Nadejda. I am 26 years old. I live in Russia,
city Yoshkar-Ola. I am cheerful woman, and like to do many things as
sport, camping, go to the cinema, theatre etc. In a word I like to do
all what like all people. I work in marketing structure on sale of
cosmetics. My dream this travel abroad. I know the english language
well enough.. I began to study english language approximately one year
ago. I wish tell to you history which have pushed me write to you. 8
months ago I have got acquainted with the man from other country by
name Justin. During this time we had good relations. We have
understood that our relations become serious and we have decided to
meet in his country. I wrote the application for reception the visa. I
waited reception of the visa approximately half of year. All time I
kept in touch with Justin through the internet and often called to
each other. I and Justin waited reception of the visa to our meeting.
I have received the invitation from the ambassador for reception of
the visa. My director has given me long-term holiday from work and I
have gone to Moscow to receive the visa. I informed good news to
Justin, but he has answered, that does not want our meeting. He
played with me. He has informed that has the wife with two children
and at all has no plans to meet me. I was not ready to such turn of
events. I could not think what even after 8 months of acquaintance he
can so unscrupulously act with me. Now I am in Moscow trip to Moscow
and reception of visa. I do not want that all was gone for nothing and
will be glad if my visa will be useful to our meeting. I could arrive
already through 4-5 days, but a problem in that that now I have no man
which would like my arrival. Probable it will silly sound but if you
will be interested in a meeting with the good woman I shall like to
meet you sometime soon! As Justin was dishonest with me I have
decided to find the man which is interested to meet the woman from
Russia. I do not know your ideas about my letter, but it would be fine
if we could meet and have some weeks or months together. On my trip I
want to receive rest from my work and a life in Russia. Also the basic
purpose for the future it is search good men for serious attitudes
which go to a marriage. I have no children, but I want to have
children in the future. I am the mature woman and ready to creation of
family with good man. I do not know what you really search in the
future but if we could meet I shall be happy to discuss with you more
about our meeting. What are you going to do this time? It would be
fine if we could meet, do friendship or more than simply friendship. I
shall be happy if you also have a free time and we could meet soon. I
do not know your interests, but anyhow write to me back and I shall
tell to you more about myself. Write to me all that you want. Maybe we
have similar plans and it will be interesting to us together.
You can write all that you want. Ask any questions which interest you.
Write to me back and I shall tell more about myself and send more my
photos.
Have a good day,
Nadejda.
Dear Nadejda,
Thank you for your heartfelt and not at all desperate sounding e-mail. I must admit your offer of "more than friendship" is very intriguing and I am tempted to write back to you privately to discuss the possible details of this alluring trans-continental rendezvous that you suggest. Certainly I am a romantic sort and the notion of meeting a sporty, firm buttocked East Asian lady who displays such a bold, lustful enthusiasm for life, camping and sexual relations with anonymous Americans as you do is enough to make one take notice, that's for sure.
That said, I feel I must politley decline your offer, Nadejda. Please understand that I mean no disrespect to you. In fact, I have considered your proposal very seriously and, actually, late one evening after being escorted out of a drinking and entertainment establishment in downtown San Antonio called Happy Sacks I drunkenly attempted to use my laptop to book an early morning flight to Yoshkar-Ola on Travelocity. Thankfully, before the order was confirmed I had passed out in the back of a pick-up truck belonging to a stone mason who lived all the way over in New Braunfels who was none too happy to discover me bathing in his wading pool the next morning. It was for the best, though, because a relationship would never have been feasible for us, Nadejda.
You see, we were doomed from the start, my love. It wasn't just the distance between us, or the language barrier, or my irrational phobias about body hair and stomach parasites and soft cheeses. No, the issue that prevents me from scampering across the Atlantic in a sweaty, furious, panting state is something far deeper and more insidious. Something so fundamentally unpleasant that it can actually give you a burning sensation when you pee and, frankly, my little commie pumpkin pie, I do not feel that it would be responsible to pass this malicious sensation on to yet a fourth unsuspecting young lady. Especially one so innocent and profoundly ingnorant as yourself.
And, hey, like you scheming red bastards need yet another reason to hate Americans, right?
Best of luck with your man-trapping,
Ken
P.S. Maybe I can call you after the treatments end?
Duh!
That's about the dumbest most disrespectful thing I've ever read about my father.
Q & A: The Ghost of Billy Barty
-Braden Barty
Dear Mr. Barty,
Let me first say I am now and have always been a great admirer of your father's. Through his persona onscreen and from what I know of his personal life I have developed a deep seated respect and admiration for both his talent as an actor and his character as a man. Few other stars in the history of American cinema have the combined resume as a performer and humanitarian that he does.
You probably aren't aware of this but I was actually a key organizer of the Billy Barty Film Festival at The University of Saskatchewan in the late eighties, early nineties until the round-headed philistines in the art department canned it in favor of a Hammer Horror Marathon despite a wave of righteous protests in opposition. Just goes to show, though, you can never trust Canadians.
That said, I would also like to apologize profoundly to you for the manner in which you have been exposed to some of the more colorful elements of your father's expansive career in Hollywood. I'm sure you were a bit surprised when you discovered my article and perused it's contents and I feel rather badly that I wasn't able to forewarn you that it might contain some harsh examples of the sort of life in the Hollywood fast lane that an actor of your dad's stature might experience. The film industry, as you know, is like a ravenous, mutated Giant Squid on a bloodthirsty rampage, always looking for new flesh to feast upon. Sort of like a rabid, brain damaged Gila Monster on methamphetamines scouring the desolate desert sands for unsuspecting prey. Or like a runaway wheat harvester posessed by the Devil intent on cutting down every dumb, inbred farmer stupid enough to get in the way of it's hellish drive toward some grim apocalypse.
Anyway, I do imagine some of what you read was a tad stunning, to the extent that your mind may have erected a wall of denial and dibelief to combat the shock. I can only say that I have the utmost faith in Melma Frankengibson as a professional and trust implicitly the information she is able to relay to me from the spirit world. As you are certainly aware, she is the utmost authority in the world in relation to the Celebrity Post-Mortal community and her credentials are utterly unassailable. I would gladly put you in touch with her in the hopes of comforting you were it not for her strict policy restricting contact with the general public, which I'm certain you will understand.
In closing, allow me to thank you for contacting me on this matter. I'm hopeful that I've been able to explain myself to your satisfaction. Please know that my only intent in writing the article about your father was to gain a measure of insight from one whom I considered to be a true master of his art and an inspirational example to all of us in the way he conducted his life. I remain optimistic that I have, in my own small way, helped insure that his legacy will live on.
Best wishes to you and the rest of the Barty family.
Sincerely,
Ken Socrates
P.S. It seems you're not doing too badly yourself in the world of film as a production assistant, camera operator and miscellaneous crew. I look forward to the day when that IMDb page of yours grows beyond the current handful listings so it might rival the endless, awe-inspiring, century-spanning monster of a list that your father has been blessed with. Keep up the good work, big guy.
Mr. Socrates,
I have recently purchased your newest novel entitled Renegade. And I must
say that, other than some of the pretty, near childlike crayon drawings
sporadically inserted over various bits of text, it was a horrendous piece
of filth. Filled to the brim with unnecessary vulgarity and rudeness, I
could only read it to my 5 year old child twice before I finally snapped due
to his constant screaming. And now I have you to blame for my current
imprisonment. This is my third arrest for Children Bowling without a
liscense. Not only was it rude and vulgar, the plot was pretty pointless and
had nothing to do with the title. Unless you count the fact, that every 50
or so pages, you threw "renegade" in as an adjective. The dialogue was hard
to follow, especially considering the fact that each character had at least
27 different names and aliases.
Example: "I would never feel a goat in the same motherf***in' way," said
Bob. And not only that, you seemed to have stuck an entire section of Mad Libs in
the middle. But instead of normal categories like adjective, number, name,
color, it has weird non-sensical categories such as Rare Bird Only Found in
the Himalayas, My Pant Size, Bigger than a Bread Box, and Sofa. I most
certainly will not be getting your newest novel, Silly Putty of the Gods.
Renegade was the most rank, horrible, vile, insignificant, putrid, smelly
(Stupid Scratch and Sniff), crass, ill-timed, ill-fitted, ill-thought-up,
ill-sofa, renegade, crappy, cruddy, disgusting, cringe-worthy piece of trash
that I have ever read.
Plus, you misspelled midget on page 42.
Imprisoned,
Albert Jose Halitosis
P.S. Donkeyland rocked!
Dear Albert,
First of all, thank you very much for your patronage of my literary endeavours. By purchasing a copy of my bestselling novel, Renegade, 2005 Burt Lancaster Press, $29.95, available now from Amazon.com, you have ensured that a not inconsiderable portion of your weekly wages from what was undoubtedly a degrading, menial, minimum wage job that will shortly become defunct due to either sensible automatization or general public apathy will find it's way securely into my pocket, my publisher's pocket, my agent's pocket and into the pockets of various ex-wives, blackmailers and discreet prostitutes. It gladdens the heart to know that someone with such a repugnant, pointless existence as your own can, through sheer unwitting, neanderthal blundering, actually do a measure of good for such a wide variety of people with a simple act of blind consumerism. For that unthinking generosity, we all thank you.
The fact that we already have your money should make any criticism you offer laughably inconsequential to us. Let's face it, the Con was complete the moment you walked out of Borders with my literary monstrosity, and an unhealthy amount of schoolgirl manga, I'm sure, tucked safely into that easy to carry, enviromentally irresponsible, plastic shopping bag. From that moment forward, your actions and opinions were about as relevant to this organization as those of a bipolar tree sloth. Still, the fact that you thought that the points made in your letter would be heeded at all by intellects so superior to your own that they must seem like transcendent post-mortal sorcerors amused us to such an extent that we felt answering your correspondence might be an entertaining way to express our bemused pity to yourself and your infantile capacity for reason.
We take no offense at your description of Renegade as "filth". Greater minds than your own have described the tome similarly, including Gore Vidal who, after what was reported as "spontaneous, uncontrollable vomiting", took a moment to jot down the words "ghastly inhuman textual flatulence" before being taken to a nearby hospital and admitted. Indeed, the only positive review the book has received was so garbled and thematically disconnected that we surmise the reviewer was actually reading random segments a badly defaced, waterstained copy of a Tom Brokaw novel that he was unable to distinguish from my own due to a severe psychotic break. It is indeed a badge of unmistakable honor to this writer that the dead, uncreative minds that litter the literary landscape of this country haven't the palest spectre of the capability to understand the glorious, soul stirring ideas described in the work.
We will, however, dispute your aversion to some of the more entertaining, interactive elements of the book. Every single person on Earth with a beating heart and a natural, pulsating joie de vivre loves Mad Libs. It reminds us of the wonder and innocence of our childhoods and endless days spent plugging words like "farty", "boogers" and "dinky" into stories supposedly about a trip to an amusement park. We're somewhat surprised that you had no comment on the erotic pop-up section of the book but, upon consideration, acknowledge that it was quite likely something more in tune with your usual preferences in literature and something you and your cross-dressing cell mate "Big Log" have undoubtedly made extensive use of since your just incarceration.
Really, Mr. Halitosis, was the experience of reading Renegade, $29.95 from Amazon.com, so horrible? Was it worth the irreversable damage done to yourself, your family, your reputation, your future, your manly self-respect that was at least minutely intact before you became some random 245 pound burly safecracker's bitch? I think not. In fact, I presume that your misplaced angst will be more appropriatley directed at whatever nosy-nose do-gooder that reported your Child Bowling to the authorities and who will learn to regret that mistake over what we suspect will be an excruciatingly long weekend spent chained to the boiler in their cellar after your eventual parole.
By that time, Silly Putty of the Gods will likely be on the stands and rising up the bestseller lists like wildfire and you will have yet another opportunity to relish the insight and soaring intellectual ecstasy experienced by millions of our other readers. Until then, please accept our gift of this somewhat used copy of the Kama Sutra personally autographed by both Ned Beatty and William McKinney from Deliverance.
Share and enjoy.
With regards,
Ken
I had dinner the other night with Ozzy. That dude can eat and he stiffed me for the bill. He ate three Rib-eye steaks at the cost of $28.00 each. Don’t forget that he had to wash them down with something also. By the time he was done Jack had left the building. It was nice that he spent some time out here in Southern California but all he could talk about was football and the playoffs. All I can say is that he sure knows his sports whether it be right or wrong. I think the Best Western folks are still looking for Ozzy because he had dinner at the buffet and he was still eating when they closed. Ozzy leaves a very big impression wherever he goes. It was fun Ozzy but you pay the next time.
Bus Port Bus Port,
You're a candy-ass. That wasn't dinner, that was just a little snack. And don't cry to me about the bill, you know you're going to write it off as a business expense. As for the drink, you thought that was Jack? Hah! I caught the waitress on my way to the bathroom and told her I don't drink just any ol' whiskey. I drink fine Scotch Whisky, as in Glenfiddich. I went easy on ya though pal. I told her I'd settle for Glenlivet. 18 year old.
Speaking of 18 year olds, I notice you didn't mention all the ten-spots I gave ya for lap dances at Captain Cream. You had more titties in your face than a dairy farmer. And that little honey that you were bragging so much about, that she wanted to take you home? That was only because I told her you only had three days to live. And another thing, quit whining about football. You're just jealous because LA doesn't have a team anymore. Candy-ass! Next time I'll show you what some real eating can do to a business expense account.
Ozzy
and all correspondence that people take their time to sit down
and write to him. If you write to him, he will respond, most likely
in an unexpected and indecipherable way. Please do not be of-
fended or confused if his reply does not reference you or your
message or, in any way whatsoever, answer the questions you
may ask him as it is nonetheless completely and utterly sincere.
an e-mail particularly interesting/troubling/amusing he will very
likely answer it right here in public for all to see and giggle at.
Send The Arrogant Bastard
An E-Mail
I Am Cheerful Woman
Duh!
Mad Libs and the Misspelled Midget
"Is that true, you a*****e?" inquired Elizabeth.
"Yeah.... L***sa**," said Freddy.
"I don't really believe &67ds*** you," said Samantha.
"Well, I really **sa* did all that renegade stuff, baby m*u*f*f*i*n*s,"
replied Alex.
Dinner With Ozzy
So. Cal
