The Bird, The Bunny, and the TWIT

Last week, my boss gave me the requisite notes with which to draw up a Post-Nuptial Agreement. I sent it on out to the client for review, and she called this morning to say there were a few corrections that needed to be made. She said she'd written in the changes on the applicable pages and would fax them to me. The fax came in and I started looking it over, and that's when the fun started. When my boss heard me hooting and snorting and cackling like a loon, he came into my office to make sure I wasn't having some kind of freaky breakdown.

In his notes, the boss had written down instructions about how to dispose of a "Catalina Macaw boat." The husband was to keep it and, if he didn't want it, the wife would take it. Whichever one kept it would be responsible for tags, title, insurance, etc. The lady wrote in the margins of that paragraph: It won't need tags, title, or insurance. The Catalina Macaw is a bird.

When I told the boss, we both just cracked up and doubled over laughing. When we finally caught our breath, he looked at me and said, "You moron."

"Idiot," I countered. "You're the one who wrote it down."

"Well," he parried, "I thought anything 'Catalina' was a boat. I thought she said boat. The woman must have a speech impediment. Who knew it was a bird?"

"You doofus," I said.

"Imbecile. We ought to just shoot each other now because we're too dumb to live."

"Yeah, but now we got the bird."

Whereupon we both doubled over with laughing spasms again.

It was at that point that I went for broke and confessed that only after getting into the office lighting had I realized that with my black houndstooth skirt and black velvet shoes I had put on navy blue tights this morning.

"What a dolt!" he pointed out.

"True, but I know a bird when I see it."

I love my job.



There's a group of authors who were once contracted to a piss-poor publisher and who grew increasingly disgruntled as they scratched and clawed and fought to get out of their contracts. During the fight, a whole lot of venting went on. One method of venting was to write "letters" to the publisher. One person would write a letter, and another would "answer" it in the guise of a company representative. Some of the letters were hysterical and the whole thing was a lot of fun. All employees and owners of the company were referred to as "twits" (Taunt & Torture the Wretches Insult Team), so the exercise came to be known as "Dear TWIT." I think I'll put up here some of the letters occasionally. They're definitely good for a few giggles.

Dear TWIT,

Why do you insist on holding my contract hostage when I'm not making you any money? You're not real good at the pimping business, are you? A good pimp would know that if it don't strut, you show it the boot. Oh, shut up, I know it doesn't rhyme. Why do you think I'm one of "yours?"

Sincerely,
Unchain Me NOW

Dear NOW:

We at Putrid Publishing like to hold on to as many contracts as possible out of spite. We know that we could never make it as successful authors, so we want to make sure none of our enslaved authors do either. As to your pimp question, that's a whole other business. We really rake in the dough what with Betty, Betsy, and Bitsy being our top "sellers." Yeah boy, at twenty bucks a pop, you'd think they'd get tired, but they just keep going and going and going... Ugh, I even made myself sick with that!

Yours truly,
Enslaved Author Support

Q. Why did the Easter Bunny hide his eggs?
A. He didn't want the other bunnies to know that he was fooling around with the chickens.

Signs That the Easter Bunny is Nuts

10. Neighbors describing him as "a quiet loner."

9. Removed from a department store last December after screaming at Santa, "You're going to die up there, fat man!"

8. Can't stop washing his paws.

7. Colorful eggs now filled with Prozac.

6. Apartment walls covered with photos of Sharon Stone.

5. Met with Dr. Kevorkian about the possibility of a "suicide egg."

4. Rotting corpse of Energizer bunny recently discovered in his crawl space.

3. Won't come out of his compound in Waco, Texas.

2. He's hippity-hopped up on crack.

1. Keeps rubbing himself for good luck.


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