The Diary of the Adventures of Albino Lobster

Dear Diary,
Today I had to explain to a few people that I am not a ghost of a regular lobster. When I told them that I was albino, they insisted that it was impossible for a lobster to be albino because, and I quote, "lobsters are too crunchy to be albino." What does that even mean? I don't feel crunchy. I may feel whatever the opposite of crunchy is...tender? Buttery?

Dear Diary,
Last night I went to the discotheque, and all the girls laughed at me because I was an albino lobster. It made me wish that I could people into albino lobsters. If they could experience my life, maybe they wouldn't laugh. Maybe they would be my friends and say, "Hey, let's go see a regular movie instead of a black and white one because I understand that you actually aren't that different from me." That's all I want.

Dear Diary,
I saved somebody's life yesterday. Pulled her from a burning car. I'm glad I'm albino lobster, I guess, and not an albino ostrich or something, so that I can actually grab things. She was very grateful, and she didn't make any comments about my albino-ness. It makes me wonder--do I prefer the attention I get for being an albino to the attention I get for saving someone's life? I probably do.

Dear Diary,
I met a Hollywood producer today. Looks like I'm going to be a guest star on an episode of "Modern Family." Makes sense. I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of fame, though. Maybe I should just marry the albino rhinoceros and settle down in some country town. Have a family. Isn't that what everyone wants? Or maybe I'll open a Red Lobster restaurant. Wouldn't that be ironic!

Dear Man-Eating Catfish

Letters from various losers to a man-eating catfish


Dear Man-Eating Catfish,
Are you really a catfish? My friend told me you were a whale shark. Is my friend a liar?
Sincerely,
Jimmy

Dear Jimmy,
Let me answer your question with a question: why would they call me The Man-Eating Catfish if I was actually a whale shark? That seems pretty stupid to me. If I was a whale shark, it'd make a lot more sense to call me The Man-Eating Whale Shark.

In response to your second question, the only way I could know if your friend was a liar is if I ate him. Please mail him to China so I can eat him, and I will get back to you as soon as possible.

Yours,
Man-Eating Catfish

Dear Man-Eating Catfish,
Why did you eat two of my friends?
Sincerely,
Boy in China without name

Dear Boy,
The first one was so tasty, I had to eat another one. It's like you and when you get to eat. Assuming you are distributed more than one potato chip, it tastes so good that you have to eat another one. So it is with me when I ate your friends. If you would like to be eaten, feel free to stop by later. I know you aren't busy because I ate your friends.

Yours,
Man-Eating Catfish

Dear Man-Eating Catfish,
My family is enslaved in a salt mine. We've been here as long as I can remember. I have heard tales of your heroism. Please come and rescue us.
Sincerely,
Slave #341

Dear Slave #341,
I think you made that all up just now. But I can't be sure unless I eat you. A lot of people think it's weird that I have to eat them to know if they're telling the truth, but they shouldn't make such a big deal about it. I could be of great help to your country's justice system by eating their witnesses in order to verify their testimony. I suggest you write to your home country's goverment and tell them about how I eat people.

Yours,
Man-Eating Catfish

Dear Man-Eating Catfish
I think you're a liar. Maybe you should eat yourself.

Dear Whoever-you-are,
That would be very stupid. A man-eating catfish eating a man-eating catfish? I've never heard of anything more absurd. Good luck with asking stupid questions in the future, and better luck getting eaten by me.

Yours,
Man-Eating Catfish

To the Greenish Fields of Canada

Dear Sir or Madam,
I regrettably must decline your offer to apply for your credit card as I will be indisposed for approximately the next three and a half years. You see, I am in quite the bind, as I owe my cable company over one million dollars, and, in their attempts to collect, I have accidentally murdered at least three cable guys. (I say "at least" because I'm not sure how many cable people were in the cable van that exploded near my house.) As a result, I must flee the country and seek political asylum before law enforcement officials arrive.

You may think that a new credit card would be an integral asset for such a journey, to which I reply, cease your endless product-pushing! I am a human being. I am not a pumpkin, to be toyed with, abused, or mocked. I cry. I bleed. I am not very different from you, sir or madam. You and I, we don't need good interest rates to lead fulfilling lives. We just need to make it to Canada, and I should leave soon, at that.

I respect your position, though, credit card supplier company, and I can understand your confusion at receiving a letter refusing your offer, let alone a letter from an alleged felon with mountains of debt most likely never to be paid back. I write you because I respect you and have sympathy for your position. It's probably not an easy job, sending out letters that most people will never open, paying for so much postage and getting so little return. I want you to know that you are valued, unlike some employees of a certain cable company. Fight the good fight, sir or madam. Don't give up just because it's hard and you never get the recognition you deserve.

When I told some of my friends that I was going to Canada, they suggested that Mexico would be some hundreds of miles closer, but the Mexicans are not my kind of people. I belong with the Canadians and their eight-month winters, their plain-looking high school students, their lack of representation in the United Nations Security Council, and their presumably free cable. Maybe someday we'll meet their under its hazy skies and recount the days of credit card offers and running cross-country from bloated police officers. We'll laugh, and our grandchildren will play together in Canada's relatively clean, infrequently mowed fields.

Until then,
Robert Louis Stevenson

The Tyranny of Cats

Dear Cat Fancy Magazine,
Thank you for printing quality material month after month. I have a subscription, and when each new issue arrives, my cat Buttons and I sit down and read the whole thing together. The only thing missing is a crossword puzzle, and I believe Buttons is ready for it. He seems to be getting bored with the jumble. The point being, we are both great fans of your work.

However, I have two complaints. First, the pictures your magazines publishes set the standard of cat beauty far too high, and because of this, Buttons has developed an eating disorder. All too often when we find pictures of skinny cats in your magazine, Buttons turns to me, and I always ask him, "How come you're so much fatter than those cats?" only to later find a pile of puke on my pillow. Your depiction of the cat form is doing serious physical, emotional, and psychological damage to cats around the world.

Second, why are there no dogs in your magazine? Cats are not the only household pet, you know. I personally don't own a dog--Buttons wouldn't have it. But what about the millions of dog owners out there who wish they could sit down with their dogs and read Cat Fancy together? I know you don't care much about the bottom line, but including some dogs could potentially double your readership!

Sincerely,
Weymouth Hanley Bruderson

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Dear Mr. or Mrs. Bruderson,
Thank you for your letter. Your idea of pumping our magazine full of dogs and fatter cats is, on the surface, one of the worst ideas we've ever heard. But as we're trying to appeal more to the hipsters and indie kids and other cat-owning losers, exploiting the irony angle may be the way to go.

Please do not think that your letter contained any modicum of intelligence or held any actual merit for our magazine. This is purely an accident of circumstance. We needed to adapt to the economy, and you are an idiot. Surely this would never have worked in any other situation, but time makes fools of us all.

Also, I am a cat. Meow.

Yours,
Monsieur Paisely Q. Geraldo

Mammoth-Killing Pentagon

Here's the letter I wrote back to the pentagon in response to his first letter:

Dear Pentagon,
You should at least try to come back. I imagine it's cold in the Ice Age, and you didn't take any sweaters with you or anything. Even if you didn't make it back to the present, you'd probably end up somewhere where they can give you a blanket. Also, I'm pretty sure you're not immortal, and even if you were, it's best not to put that to the test.

Sincerely,
Ben

And then, like right after I sent it, I got another response with this picture:


Dear Ben,
Thanks for your letter, though I am not quite sure how I received it. I appreciated your sentiment about the weather. As you can see from the picture, I made myself a robe of mammoth fur.

Which leads to my main reason for writing: I've joined a tribe of nomadic cavemen and have developed a taste for mammoth hunting. I believe that this is my calling, and I plan to stay here in this time to teach and aid my caveman brethren.

We will probably never see each other again. It would be best for you not to write, I think. We should just move on with our lives.

Sincerely,
Infinity Pentagon

Oh well. At least he won't freeze to death now.

Time-Traveling Pentagon

I was just staring at the pentagon for a few seconds, and then all of a sudden it disappeared. About a minute later I got this picture and a letter.


Here's the letter:

Dear Ben,
I decided to travel back in time. I'm in the Ice Age, apparently. It's pretty cool (get it?). Here's a picture of me with a woolly mammoth.

I don't know if I'll come back. It's kind of boring in your time. Here we have mammoths. Also, I don't know how to get back. Maybe you should have invented me with some sort of chronometer so I could control my time travel.

I'll probably see you again, though. I believe I'm immortal, but that has yet to be proven. Look over your shoulder--am I there? [He wasn't.]

Anyways, I hope you're not mad at me. But if you are, it's not like you can do anything about it.

Sincerely,
Infinity Pentagon

At least that was nice of him to send something. Still, I'll probably have to invent another time-traveling pentagon to find him and destroy him.

Dear Nintendo Wii

Dear People Enslaved by Nintendo Wii,

I'm sure you guys get a lot of fan mail about how awesome the Wii is, but I won't bore you with the nonsensical ravings I'm sure you've read before. To be honest, I've never even met a Wii in person, but please do me the kindness of listening to my story.

About six months ago, Guitar Hero II ruined my life, and I haven't played video games since. I spent a month in rehab and another month in the gutter before I finally pulled myself together. As with all people in recovery, I'm always capable of relapse, so I avoid games as much as I can.

However, as a friend told me about Wii Sports, it occurred to me that the Wii could offer the perfect game to allow me to play games without relapsing--a video gamer's O'Doul's, if you will. I call this game Wii Chores. Players can have the options of raking leaves, sweeping the floor, making the bed, folding laundry. The possibilities are endless! It gives all the satisfaction of doing something productive without actually doing any of the work!

I hope that you take me seriously.

Sincerely,
Roboben

Don't Take it From Me, Part 2

(Don't Take it From Me, Part 1)

My pal Murgatroyd just back from being on tour with his band, so I figure I'd give him another shot at the advice column business.

Dear Murgatroyd,
My friends and I put sugar in my mom's gas tank, and she found out. Now I'm grounded for three months. What should I do?
Sincerely,
Nicholas Redfield

Dear Nick,
You should have asked that question before you got caught. My answer would have been, don't get caught. Now you are screwed.
Love,
Murgatroyd

Dear Murgatroyd,
I really like to go to the zoo. The zebras are my favorite. Last time I went to the zoo, I saw a zebra get stuck on top of another zebra. Mommy said that's how they stay warm. Is she right?
Sincerely,
I love zebras

Dear Zebra-lover,
Hahahahaha, that's awesome.
Love,
Murgatroyd

Dear Murgatroyd,
I just got fired from my waitressing job at TGI Fridays. Where should I go get a new job?
Sincerely,
Molly McCutcheon

Dear Molly,
I have worked many places, and the best place to work is the pet shop. You get to play with all the animals, and when you need to shoot your music video, you get to use all the puppies for free! However, you will get fired.
Love,
Murgatroyd

Dear Murgatroyd,
How's the doctorate coming?
Sincerely,
Prof. Edward Plummer

Dear Professor,
I am proposing my dissertation in two weeks. It will be on whether or not penguins can play guitar. I believe they can, and I drew a picture to prove it. I will be the best PhD of all time!
Love,
Murgatroyd

Rebreak My Heart

Dear Boyfriend,
I'm really sorry to do this, but we're through. I know I wanted to get back together, and I wrote "Unbreak My Heart" and requested it all the time on the radio until you came back to me, but it was a mistake. There were and still are a lot of irreconcilable differences between us that made us break up, and I guess I was blind to all that when I wrote that song. Maybe I should have just gotten over it. Again, I'm really sorry, but this will be for the best.

Now I know this might be even harder for you, but I'm keeping all of your stuff. You moved in here, and now your stuff is on my property. You probably should have thought things through a little better before you moved out of your parents' house. And I know how much you love your boa constrictor, but Rex is mine now too, and I plan on training him to kill you if you come within 500 feet of here.

Sincerely,
Toni Braxton

What Would Ricardo Montalban Do?

Dear Ricardo,
I didn't have time to rake my leaves this year, and it's already started snowing! Is there anything I can do to avoid a soggy mess come springtime?
Sincerely,
Peter Rutherford, St. Louis, MO

Dear Peter,
Your lawn is doomed, I'm afraid. I suggest you have your midget take care of the problem.
Cheers,
Ricardo Montalban

Dear Ricardo,
I love toast.
Johnny

Dear Johnny,
Toast is quite delicious. Just so you know, my career is more than just Fantasy Island and Wrath of Khan. I've guest-starred in several other television shows. Enjoy your toast.
Cheers,
Ricardo Montalban

Dear Ricardo,
My army of genetically-engineered clones just escaped from my lab. How do I stop them? And please hurry.
Dr. Jeffries

Dear Dr. Jeffries,
If you may recall, my role in Wrath of Khan was one of the escaped genetically-engineerd warriors. Therefore, my experience is more suited to evading capture and exacting revenge than to putting an end to their rampage. I apologize for the confusion.
Cheers,
Ricardo Montalban

Dear Ricardo,
You've got Genesis, but you don't have me. You were going to kill me. What's up?
Yours, Admiral James T. Kirk.

Dear Admiral Kirk,
I've done far worse than kill you, Admiral. I've hurt you. And I wish to go on hurting you. I shall leave you as you left me, as you left her: marooned for all eternity in the center of a dead planet, buried alive.
Cheers,
Ricardo Montalban

Dear Ricardo,
KHAAAAAAAAAAAN!!! I mean, MONTALBAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!
Yours, Admiral James T. Kirk.

Dear Admiral Kirk,
Sinister laughter.
Cheers,
Ricardo Montalban

Dear Diary

Went for a bike ride today. Saw at least one interesting sight. A woman was taking her two dogs for a walk, only one of them was in a stroller. A sheltie. I half-expected the dog to be on top of a baby because, really, who puts a dog in a stroller? No baby, though.

Butt got really sore.

Sincerely,
Ben

Don't Take it From Me

Listen to my pal Murgatroyd.

Dear Murgatroyd,
My wife and I are planning on taking a vacation for Labor Day weekend, but we don't know where to go! Any ideas?
Signed,
Destinationless in Detroit

Dear Destinationless,
May I suggest Santa Fe, New Mexico? That's where my garage is. I got a sweet stereo set up there, and plenty of Sabbath and Motorhead so I can ROCK OUT. But if you aren't into garages, you could always go to HELL.
Love,
Murgatroyd

Dear Murgatroyd,
What's your favorite candy bar?
Signed,
Audrey Little

Dear Audrey,
I hate candy!
Love,
Murgatroyd

Dear Murgatroyd,
My grandpa said he saw you at the Star Trek convention. Is he a liar?
Signed,
Roger McGillicuddy

Dear Roger,
Your grandfather is definitely a liar, but not because he said he saw me at the Star Trek convention. That statement is true. I am Dr. McCoy's biggest fan! He is the baddest.
Love,
Murgatroyd

New York Review of Books, Explain Yourself!

Dear afore-mentioned magazine and magazine-related enterprises,

Why did you send me an invitation to subscribe to your periodical? Usually people (or entities pretending to be people (or loan sharks pretending to be entities pretending to be people)) preface their requests for my money with a kindly worded letter explaining why my money would be happier with them. You, New York Review of Books, offend me in not doing so. Aside from the blatant social disregard, I can't even understand your invoice. What am I to make of this "Professional Rate" you offer me? Why is it special? What about my personality recommends me to the professional rate as opposed to the apprentice rate or the amateur rate? No, New York Review of Books, I refuse to subscribe until you can adequately address these concerns. Thank you for your time.

Ben

McSweeney's Interactive

My bitter, cynical outcry has finally received an answer!

Today I wrote a letter to McSweeney's accusing them of no longer being funny, and I cited their week "McSweeney's Predicts" section as evidence. The letter, as it reached the McSweeney's Corporate Conglomerate, is as follows:

Dear McSweeney,
Not everything can be funny forever. Everything loses its humor sooner or later, so don't be upset when I say that you're losing your funny as I write. It happened before with the jesters of the dark ages, and the kings had them killed. It happened with Picasso, and then people started taking him seriously. It happened with The Simpsons, Tom Hanks, Saturday Night Live, the comics in the Sunday paper, and Democrats, and you, McSweeney, are next. I say this as a warning so that you might not follow their unfortunate paths.

I was not fully aware of your decline until I read McSweeney's Predicts. As I see it, your predictions fall into two categories: 1) virtual locks, and 2) uninspired and dull guesses. For an example of category 1, you give Lost a whole three year buffer before its cancellation. That's pretty generous for a show whose second season has been universally panned. They've only had two years so far, and only 50% of them have been good. They'd even be lucky if they had two more years of stories.

In category 2, you predict that Good Night, and Good Luck will win best picture. I can appreciate that because you were wrong, but it's not funny. It's normal. It's the kind of thing someone on the street would say. What might have been funny is predicting that one of the nominated films would not win best picture, though that would then have an 80% chance of being true and fall into category 1.

What makes you funny, McSweeney, is cleverness. Do not be dry for the sake of being dry. We are not British. Remember that.

With great concern,
Ben Robison

Minutes ago, I received a response from the McSweeney's "head honcho," as he delightfully did not call himself. It is as follows as well:

Ben:

Thanks for the warning. As you might imagine, I get one just about every other day declaring that we've sunk into irrelevance or unfunniness, or worse. Yours is more polite and reasoned than most. For example, the most recent one before yours came from a Steve who declared, "You suck beyond what I thought was possible in the realm of suckiness."

At the end of his message, he told us to "eat shit and die."

Strangely, most people are dismayed at us being "too clever," while you are concerned that we've lost our cleverness. I guess this illustrates the old you can't please all the Bens and Steves all the time axiom.

What can I say, but we do the best we can at providing free weekdaily entertainment. Invariably, and inevitably, we fall short in a thousand ways each and every day, but I've grown comfortable with that. It's worse to not try, or to swing like a pendulum trying to please Steve one day and Ben the next because then you're pleasing no one, particularly not yourself.

I'm sure our time will come eventually (or it has happened already) and people will stop reading or caring what we put in our Internet space. Some think we've never been funny, which may be true as well.

And yet, we will be here, forever, annoying the Steves and Bens of the world with our uncleverness (or overcleverness), because we believe. We believe.

Best,

John Warner
Website Editor

Though I appreciate this, I have a sneaking feeling that it's just a form letter with a programmable blank for my name. But what really dogs me is that he says he'd end up pleasing no one if he'd try to please the Steves one day and the Bens the next. Is he an idiot? He'd be pleasing everybody! I used to think the problem was that McSweeney was trying too hard, but now I realize they're all just lazy. This is perhaps a major reason why McSweeney's is not the brilliant whatever-you-call-it I once thought it was.

And I just realized that for his use of the word "shit," John Warner got a warning from Cigna telling him to shut up his potty mouth. I'm serious. They send those things automatically.

Open Letters

This was a concept Will and I came up with during the drive to the FTA retreat. We write really short letters to people and/or entities that should hear what we're thinking. Though I forget the one that began the whole thing, here's a few that've been cooking in my brain.


Dear Jerry Seinfeld,
What's the deal with pre-faded jeans?
Love, Ben and Will

Dear Frito Lay Corporation, Doritos Division,
Your bags' "new look" is all wrong. New look bad, old look less bad. We suggest changing products all together. How about computers?
Love, Ben and Will

Dear United States Postal Service,
Thank you for suing the band The Postal Service for stealing your name. You've done this country a great service and not wasted anyone's time or money.
Love, Ben and Will
P.S.-Please send more two-cent stamps.

Dear Haddaway,
Love is the smile on a child's face. It's also patient, kind, etc. And I will hurt you.
Signed, Baby


That's it for now.

Epistolary Post

Dear Whoever invented the wheel,

You are a genius.

Love,
Wheel Enthusiast

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Dear WHEEL ENTHUSIAST,

Thank you for your interest in THE WHEEL, one of my greatest inventions. Please buy my book, The Things I Invented, for more information on the invention in question. Keep the dream alive!

Sincerely,
Dr. Cornelius Pretzelmobile

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Dear Dr. Pretzelmobile,

How did you get my letter? I never sent it. I never even had an idea of where to send it.

Also, I googled your name and looked up your book on Amazon, and apparently neither you nor your book exist.

Please stop harrassing me.

Signed,
Wheel Enthusiast

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Dear "Wheel Enthusiast,"

Who are you and how did you get this address?

Michael Jordan

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Dear Roommate,

Please stop writing fake responses to my mail. It was funny that one time that you were pretending to be my grandma, but now it's just old and annoying.

Shut up,
You know who

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Dear Wheel Enthusiast,

I am holding Michael Jordan hostage, and unless you send me a copy of THE WHEEL, I will kill him and send his head to the president. You have 48 hours to comply.

Best wishes,
Dr. Cornelius Pretzelmobile

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Dear Wheel Enthusiast,

You are under arrest for not following the orders of Dr. Pretzelmobile. I received Michael Jordan's head minutes ago can only conclude that you are responsible for this national tragedy. For shame.

Signed,
The President.

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Dude, you didn't even use the president's name. Weak.

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Oh man, you should have seen the look on your face when you got that last one! Set and match, Goldstein.