Thursday, August 25, 2005

Proof: A Human Reads My Blog

Yesterday I had the fright of my life.

Picture this: Here I was minding my own business going about my routine collecting the daily mail and amongst the usual fan mail and love letters from Livinia Nixon (I wish she wouldn't write so often... how's a man supposed to live!)... I receive one strange looking picturesque postcard, seen here:



Believe it or not but my sinister initial reaction was:
"This is probably somebody else's... but I'll read what they wrote anyway!"

Evil aren't I?

But when I turned it the postcard over there it was...

MY NAME AND POSTAL ADDRESS!

Now I was freaked out.

Who the hell do I know from Arizona? Or more importantly who in the hell knows me that's in Arizona??

Do I have some long lost cousin that lives in the U.S. of A.? Are they wealthy?

Was I *really* adopted?? Are they wealthy??

Or maybe when I was born my folks had me married to some chic where our wedding saw our umbilical cords entwined together, but through circumstances unknown at the time and the eroding of our umbilical cords we were severed and separated since birth??? Maybe she's wealthy too??

My mind was racing...

JUST READ THE BLOODY THING!!! My conscious slapped.

Ok.

And what would you know...

It was one of my beloved subscribers!

Wow.

Here I was thinking that I was rubbing shoulders with geeks, freaks, phonies and Latvian women. Yet amongst it all I have a dear subscriber who is actually... dare I say it...

HUMAN!

No!

Yes! Really!

Believe me dear friends... there are *actually* humans on this thing called the internet! Reach out - you never know you might catch one!

So, when I arrived home I shot a quick email off thanking this person and I will endeavour to reciprocate by sending a postcard from my beloved town of Freo (that's local hip talk for Fremantle) to them.

How did this person get my snail mail address?

By subscribing.

See, as part of some new SPAM laws that have been enacted I need to disclose my postal address to show my loyal subscribers that I really am a human, I really do have a postal address, my first name really is "Ryan", and I really do hate spam just as much as they do and will do everything in my power to prevent spam hitting their inbox... and if they ever have a problem with their subscription they can front me up at my PO box!

So, if you want to join the ranks of people I admire in this world (yes the list is quite small... but growing) send me a postcard of your beloved home town.

If you're nice, say good things, make me feel warm and fuzzy inside I *might* feel inclined to reciprocate - but I'm no easy beat.

I can read fakes a mile away.

In fact there was this one time in the city, at a fashion parade, where I spotted this gorgeous chic dressed in a long beautiful red dress that had caught everyone's eye with her stunning looks and perfect body that I *knew* something wasn't right.

I had never met or seen this lady before, yet deep down my gut was telling me something. Something just wasn't right - I could tell.

Maybe it's my innate sixth sense... or is that seventh? Heck, I can't even remember what my first sense is?? (Isn't it women??)

Well, as much as it pains me to tell you and to bring this information into a large public forum...

The lady had silicon breasts.

Yep.

And they say men can't tell the difference!

*Tsk*

Well... today *I* could and it pained me to see men treat her as the femme fatale of the evening not knowing the *real* truth behind this woman. I tried my best to contain any sudden outburst as I didn't want to spoil the limelight from her - she was doing a good job with that red dress, showing a bit of cleavage, having a lovely set of clavicles (I hope that's what they're called!!).

But it pained me inside.

Every passing moment that she glanced at me I could feel my soul tearing away at my very inward parts. Though only seconds passed it seemed but an eternity.

Eventually the words erupted from my mouth before I even had a chance of catching them and my body followed through pointing directly at her.

"SHE'S GOT SILICON BREASTS!" I splattered.

Everyone turned and looked at me in shock horror.

They followed the very accusing finger that targetted the innocent lady.

I slowly looked away, unable to bear the look of hurt welling up in her eyes.

But then the weirdest thing happened...

The crowd burst out laughing?!

"This is no joke," I wailed, "she's got silicon breasts."

I pointed again making sure that people were fully engaged at the person I was accusing. It was going to make headlines.

I pictured all the popular women's magazines scoop headlines of tomorrow: "FAKE!" "EXPOSED!" "RYAN RYAN RYAN!" "ACCUSED!" all emblazoned on their covers with the very woman standing at the end of my pointed finger in shock.

But then they laughed even harder!?

These people are mad, I thought.

I looked back at the woman I had publicly humiliated and noticed that even she hadn't cared... there were no tears... in fact, come to think of it I don't think she even blinked!

But... the secret was out - I was content with my lot in life and moved on.

And damn those female mannequins - they shouldn't make them so realistic.

Told you I could spot a fake!

Right, time to put in some effort of writing really neatly to my beloved subscriber otherwise they'll find it near impossible to read... unless they have a PhD in Egyptian hieroglyphics and ancient art!


Ryan

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