I CAN'T LET THAT PASS
I had hoped that we could keep negativity out of this little online fireside chat we have, but apparently I was mistaken. I have decided to address this in an open letter to the perpetrator:
The Laird of Madrona
Laird Place
Madrona
San Francisco
Dear Ex-Pal:
In a recent post you intimated that I don't own any records. This statement, as you surely are aware, is disingenuous, at best. You know better than anyone that I own a record. One record. How do I know you know? Because it is at your house. Why is it at your house? Because I can play it on your record player since I don't have one.
And knowing this, surely you also know, but are unwilling to admit you know, at least in a public forum (for reasons known only to yourself) that it is, in point of fact, one of the finest records ever made: Dawn of the Dickies
You dare deny my ownership of Dawn of the Dickies! At long last sir, have you no shame?!
You shall pay for this malicious slight. I'm a fighter, and I won't stand for these scurrilous ambush tactics. Don't bother defending yourself, John McCain has already been contacted.
Sincerely,
Dr. X
Hunted, Despised
Living Like an Animal
I trust that clears everything up.
posted by Anonymous at 7:54 PM
3 Comments:
I do believe the Dickies were playing at my local coffee shop the other day, when I explained to the youngster barrista what the former fashion accessory of a dickie was.
Sirs:
I am outraged, and because I detect a sense of outrage somewhere near here, and share it heartily, I must speak to my sense of outrage at the constant and unbridlededly outrageoues perpetuation of outrage, which, I understand you share. Outrageous! And I am outraged!
This outrageousness must cease! Does the world care if one or even two outraged men are forced to sell whiskey-diluted blood to buy hundreds of scratch-lotto tickets as a last hopeful stab at dignity!? And that the slivers of grey scratched off lotto wax fall to the floor at Albertson's like a monstrous Alaskan snow-blizzard of failure?
Who among us can say? Who among us can say?
Respectfully,
Major Stanley Tuffle (ret.)
Aberdeen
I'm sorry. I was wrong. I mistook the fact that you have no records in you condo (and non-posession of a record player or turntable of any kind) as a lack of posession (and iterest) in records, themselves. By critisizing your use of the term "sides", I unfairly painted you as a poseur, a guy who likes to give the appearance of liking jazz, but spending little or no time listening to it.
The Laird regrets the error.
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