Dear Student:

Thank you for enrolling in my class. Unfortunately, due to lack of interest, I have been forced to cancel it. Apparently, a lot of people thought that the course listing was nothing more than a prank. I suppose I can understand this. But I was really looking forward to sharing with you all of my knowledge and expertise.

OK, I’ll admit it, Underwater Basket Weaving is an amusing idea. But when you think about it—I mean really think about it—you realize just how fascinating a concept it really is.

Contrary to popular belief, we do not sit on the ocean floor with scuba gear on. That’s just foolish. The weaving is done in small, specially designed tanks. The weaver remains dry, for the most part, except for his or her hands. The challenge is doing the actual weaving with your hands submerged in water. You see, the straw floats, so you have to keep a really good grip on your project. Once you have a decent amount done, you can use a weight to keep your project submerged. Why not just let your basket float up to the top? Well, then that would be called Floating Basket Weaving or something like that, wouldn’t it? And, really, where’s the challenge in that?

But it really makes no difference. The class will never be and the art of underwater basket weaving will slowly die away. I was hoping I could pass along the secrets and continue the tradition. But, alas, it seems that dream will never come true.

Thank you again for your interest in Underwater Basket Weaving. If you are truly serious about learning the craft, I am available for private lessons. Or if you’d like to give it a go on your own, let me know. I have 15 of these fucking customized weaving tanks in my garage right now and nobody on Craigslist wants anything to do with them.

Happy weaving to you.

Michael Gorgonzola

He was a man and she was a woman. Good start. They were also heterosexual. Again, that was working in their favor. He looked pretty good for his age and she was incredibly hot. It was just a matter of time before they would find each other. Unfortunately, that matter of time turned out to be 25 years. By then, he was on dialysis and she was suffering from dementia. Also, their looks weren’t quite what they used to be. In fact, they looked pretty disgusting. Ugly, even. And they smelled bad, like old people smell. Fortunately, his sense of smell was one of the first things to go, and her nose was still taped up from when she got into a fight with herself. Their eyes met. Thanks to extremely poor vision, he saw a woman of 25. And she, thanks to her dementia, saw a young man with a snake growing out of his forehead. He thought she was beautiful. She thought he was disgusting, but she immediately fell in love with his snake (it flicked out its tongue so seductively). Suddenly, she ran towards him. He stretched out his arms and their torsos met. Bones cracked. Bodily fluids leaked out onto the hospital floor. He opened his mouth to accept her lips and she tackled him to the ground and tongued his forehead until the orderlies sedated her. Neither the man nor the woman would remember this encounter. But the snake would never be the same.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

This  holiday sucks.

Hey, thanks. I appreciate the thought, but it seems like you’ve made a horrible mistake. You see, it’s not my birthday. No, really. If anyone would know, it would be me. And what’s with all of these Over The Hill jokes? Aren’t those for people over 40? C’mon, give me some credit. Do I look like I’m over 40? Well, that’s my point. So do me a favor and take all of these fucking cards and balloons away. I don’t want to see them right now. Huh? What’s that? Well, technically, yes. It’s Thursday, but… Well, yes, I suppose I might be turning 40, but… OK, fine, fuck it. Just give me the damn balloons. Bleh. I might as well start looking at retirement homes in Florida.