âAN OPEN LETTER TO READER’S DIGESTâ
Hello, Dolls.
I opened the mail and saw the most poorly-timed subscription renewal notice ever from the good folk over at Reader’s Digest which was addressed to my recently deceased father that read:
âJames,
Did we catch you at a bad time? Perhaps you’ve been so busy enjoying Reader’s Digest that you missed our reminders.â
Now, many of you don’t know me, my family or my father well enough to understand how we were able to actually LAUGH at something like this during such an auspicious time. My father often raised an eyebrow at my twisted humor, but he instilled it and encouraged it more than he’d ever let on. Whatever the case, this is for the entire lot of you:
Dear Reader’s Digest,
I hope that this letter finds you healthy and happy.
Unfortunately, you have in fact caught me at a bad time. (You have no idea.) The economy is a wreck, our nation is at war, there was that whole earthquake thing in Haiti, this season of âAmerican Idolâ is beyond boring without Paula Abdul’s narcotic-induced and slurred approval of lackluster talent, and I died in a cancerous morphine coma last week. To be quite honest, your timing couldn’t have been worse.
I must admit that a subscription renewal to your monthly magazine has not been a major priority of mine over the last few months, but I trust that you’ll understand that I have been tied up as of late with matters such as controlling my excruciating pain, my expiration, my subsequent funeral and burial, and finally a relocation to my new residence in the hereafter.
I must also admit that, while I have been a subscriber of your publication for close to thirty years, I have probably only ever picked up your charming collection of watch dog warnings and inevitable tales of wheat belt tornado survivor stories twice in my life. You’ll be happy to know, however, that my faggotty son has spent hours of mild enjoyment while reading your publication as he pinched off a dookie loaf in the cramped bathroom by the laundry room downstairs. Our monthly copy of Reader’s Digest has also come in quite handy when rolled up and used as a method of spider extermination in the past. I was most impressed with your cover article entitled “How To Rebound From Anything” as I glanced from the front page to the toilet I was heaving my guts into after a day of chemotherapy treatments. Always a pip.
I am grateful that I have had (for three decades now) a resource that had enlightened me of the humor that is to be found when a child misreads a âDon’t Walkâ crossing signal and assumes that it means he should instead RUN across a busy intersection. I have grown leaps and bounds (albeit with extraordinary paranoia) with such articles as âWhat Your Doctor Doesn’t Want You To Knowâ and â10 Things To Remember During a Catastrophic Floodâ. What I have enjoyed most of all has been the 84 pages of enlarged prostate medication advertisements and Branson, Missouri Chamber of Commerce promotional materials that overwhelmingly populate your publication. I want you to know that I died safe in the knowledge that if my prostate were to swell up to the size of a grapefruit, I could always find solace and comfort in a reasonably priced visit to a poor man’s Vegas to catch Louise Mandrell’s patriotic salute to country music.
Now that I have been laid to rest and a sturdy six feet of dirt stands between my decaying prostate and the six hundred miles to Branson, I would like to suggest that you, the ever friendly and condescending fucktards at Reader’s Digest, reconsider your renewal notice and the way that it is worded in the future. My remaining family has had a hell of a week, and please rest assured that the last thing on their minds (while dealing with insurance policies, coffins, vaults, funereal plots and what to do with my now useless wardrobe) is renewing a subscription to a magazine that is best suited as outhouse toilet paper in a pinch.
Thank you for your service and for allowing me to spend close to half of my life contributing to a miniature magazine that I was too complacent to discontinue.
Sincerely dead,
James Pace
249 Paved In Gold St.
Cloud Nine, Heaven
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