The Mail Guy

When I sat down to write this month's notes, I thought that I would for once work in the style befitting a publisher of what TV Guide has called "America's greatest on-line pop culture journal since Hot Mama" and wear clothes. Then I changed my mind.

Off I went about my work day, answering phone calls, playing with the copy machine, drooling on myself, buying beer, and finally getting to the reader mail. We get so much mail here at Yellow Dog that I have dipped into the company's salary funds and hired a mail room boy, Billy Wonder. That's his name. Honest. I haven't decided if I will put his name on the masthead yet. As a mattter of fact, I don't even know what he looks like. I hired him by thumbing through the Yellow Pages until I came across a name that sounded interesting. Hope Penal was my first choice, but she said no. Billy agreed right away. Seems he's been looking for work ever since IBM let him go. Welcome aboard, Billy!

Anyway, until Billy Wonder shows up for work, I'll have to continue to wallow around my office, stepping all over these unanswered submissions, requests for sex, unpaid pharmacy bills, and notes from my mother: "Don't call me anymore," "You're not mine," "Did you brush your teeth?"

What I really wanted to talk about here was the recent influx of letters asking us if we would leave them alone and stop notifying them whenever Yellow Dog goes on-line. The answer to that question is no. We will not rest until every man, woman, child, and pet monkey is reading Yellow Dog. Preferably on the toilet.

Yellow Dog has an important role in today's society: to guard the pop culture that we take so very much for granted and to keep it safe for all on the Internet. This is our job. This is our duty. We don't ask for much, but we do appreciate tips. And invitations to come over for dinner.

Woops. Looks like I made too many copies of myself sitting on the copy machine. Damn thing's overheating again. Gale, my secretary, won't be happy to hear this. She hates having to rip pictures of my buttocks out of the copier when it jams. Oh, well. That's why we pay her the big bucks, I guess. I can't wait until Billy gets here. Then we'll really have some fun. The toothpaste on the ceiling needs scraping, and finally, I won't have to feed Ishmail Alexander anymore.

Also, Mr. Whiskers, my pet monkey, needs a bath.

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