To: "XXX XXXXXXXXX <XXX@XXX.us>

Subject: Re: 3 years too long
X-Shut-Up-Bob: Shut up, Bob!
X-Barry-White: My unlimited love to all y'all.
In-reply-to: Your message of "Fri, 12 Dec 1997 08:35:13 EST."
             <01BD06D8.E162E7E0.XXXXX@XXXXX.XXX>
Date: Fri, 12 Dec 1997 09:41:30 -0500
From: Mike Wohlgemuth <mjw@XXX.com>

In message <01BD06D8.E162E7E0.XXXXX@XXXXX.XXX>, Drew Nolan writes:
>So, I'm kind of let down that Woogie did not realize why I have lived three
>years too long.

Oh, I realized it.  I just decided to blow off responding.  Actually,
I never really decided to blow of responding, I just put it off until
it seemed superfluous.  Now I suppose it is not superfluous, so I am
responding.  So this is my response acknowledging that I realize why
you have lived three years too long.  Actually, this is my response
acknowledging that I realize why you made the statement that you have
lived three years too long, or rather that you made the statement that
you have lived three years too long the subject of your correspondence
to the dog list some days ago.  So, I suppose that your statement
above is indeed correct.  I do not realize why you have lived three
years too long.  I am unsure why my lack of enlightenment on such
metaphysical statements would adversely affect your emotional state,
but I am willing to look into the matter of why you have lived three
years too long if it would reverse the emotional slide you have
experienced.  I make no claims that my investigation will provide any
evidence on why you have lived three years too long, or even if you
have, in fact, lived three years too long, or, for that matter, why
you seem to believe that you have lived three years too long.  While I
could catalog a long stream of events that have allowed you to live as
long as you have, it would only bring us to the conclusion that you
have, in fact, lived this long, but would do nothing to show that you
have lived three years too long.  At best, if I could show that the
events in your life since the time of your birth are comprised of less
than three years, I could then show that you have, in fact, not lived
three years too long.  (This assumes, of course, that life begins at
birth, and not conception).  A large body of evidence, anecdotal and
otherwise, would seem to contradict this, however, so I do not hold
out much hope for this line of inquiry.  I am not familiar with any
standard method for determining the length of one's life, other then
subtracting the time of birth from the time of death, but I assume
that this method would show that you have not lived three years too
long and would not have much impact on your emotional state when the
evidence was actually available.  So it would seem that my inquiry is
at something of a standstill, and you would do well to pursue other
avenues to better your emotional state.

Thank you
Woogie

So one day, all these corpses came back to life. They were all just wandering around singing in that annoying voice. Even the disembodied head was floating around. It was so terrifying that everyone in my dream decided that it was better to live underground than to have to deal with hundreds of undead Sinead O’Connors walking the Earth, singing Nothing Compares to You. So that’s what we did. We dug a big hole in my closet and sealed ourselves underground. I’m not sure how we planned to survive, but we all seemed very relieved.

But today was different. Today, that air of expectancy was back. Michael Spuutihed could tell that whatever happened, by the end of today nothing would be the same. He jumped out of the same bed he had for years, but this morning he felt alive and refreshed. He showered in the same bathroom that he always did, but today the soap and water made him feel even more alive and refreshed. He dried himself off with the same old towel, and put on one of the same 5 suits he always wore, the last having been purchased about 10 months ago. The suit seemed to fit better somehow. He stopped at the same diner for the same breakfast and read the same paper with the same news as always. Nothing about the day so far was any different from any other, but, Michael Spuutihed thought, there is a long day ahead for something big to happen.

All day at work, Michael Spuutihed kept looking for clues for the really big thing that was going to happen. Perhaps today would be the day that Sally Fromaccounting would finally notice him. Perhaps today the seemingly endless list of cold calls would actually produce the Big Sale. Perhaps today would be the day that the boss would finally realize that he was too valuable an employee to be wasted in such a low level position. But nothing unusual happened. Sally Fromaccounting ignored him, all the calls were a bust, and the boss went out for drinks after work with Joey Prick.

The day at work left Michael Spuutihed feeling somewhat downtrodden, but still certain that today would be the day that would change everything. On his way home, he stopped of by the same grocery, picked up the same thing he always did: a frozen dinner, a six pack of whatever beer was on sale, and a pack of cigarettes. He got home, and after heating the frozen dinner in the same oven, he sat in the same chair, ate dinner, and watched the same evening news on the same TV. After dinner, he drank some beer, smoked a few cigarettes, and watched some more TV. He’d seen all the shows before, but watching TV helped pass the time, and anyway, what else did he have to do while waiting for something to happen?

It was 9 o’clock or so when he started feeling like he should get out of the house. He couldn’t remember something big ever happening while he just sat around, and it was getting pretty late. He took the last beer, and what was left of the cigarettes, and got in his car. He didn’t really know where he was going, he just knew he was looking for something, and he didn’t seem to be finding it. It was just the same streets in the same town that he had always lived. No matter where he went, everything was the same. After what must have been a few hours, he noticed he was getting low on gas. He stopped at the same gas station where he always got gas, and filled up the tank. He went inside and paid for the gas and a pack of cigarettes. It was the same clerk that always worked this time of night, and they exchanged the same pleasantries. On the way out the door, Michael Spuutihed glanced down at his watch. It was 11:59 PM. This can’t be, he thought. This was supposed to be the day something happened! He paused for a second or two, and then turned around and walked back to the counter. The clerk said something, but Michael Spuutihed didn’t hear it. He stared at the clerk for a second, and then pulled out his 9 mm and fired 3 rounds, 2 in the chest, and one in the head of the clerk, who slumped to the floor with a solid thud. He walked around behind the counter, opened the register and took all the cash. It totaled about $41, including the $17 or so he had just paid. On the way out the door, Michael Spuutihed glanced down at his watch again. Each hand was positioned squarely over the 12. He got in his car and drove home.

As he drifted off to sleep that night, Michael Spuutihed marveled at the wonderful experiences he had on this very unusual day.