Date: Next Tuesday
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]
‘Tis a sad, sad day. Forget the unrelenting tranquility one might find outside — what, with the glorious sunshine, gentle breeze and a sky so blue it seems as though the Gulf of Mexico is looking into a mirror. Forget all that shit.
Never did I imagine the day that newspapers (note “newspapers,” as in plural) would allow a woman — no ... a wicked, horrible wretch — to use up 15-20 column inches weekly, or sometimes daily.
Dull, dumbfounded and disoriented readers — left that way by reading the shit-plate that is our media today, meet Lovina Eichner. The editor’s note at the bottom of her column describes her as such:
“Lovina Eicher is Old Order Amish. She hand-writes this column from her Indiana home. Lovina inherited the column from her mother, Elizabeth, who penned it from 1991 through 2002. Anyone with cultural or cooking questions can send them to ... Middletown, Ohio.”
OK, Mrs. Eicher. I have a “cultural” question. Is it against your culture to torture? Yes or no? I thought so. Then why the hell do you take time out of your irksome, good-for-no-one-but-yourself lifestyle just to torment my eyes and tantalize my brain?
Omit thoughts of Abu Ghraib for a second. This whore takes pleasure in tainting the eyes and minds of thousands of readers each week. I can envision her right now, with her wooden face eternally cemented with the expression you get after eating a big scoop of the white cream in fruit salad (when you thought it was whipped cream). She probably has excellent penmanship, probably good enough to write names on degree certificates. I’m guessing she writes by candlelight for dramatic effect. Well, I’ll piss on your dramatic effect.
Here’s an excerpt from her column, which my co-worker Charley found:
“3 a.m. — It’s time to get up and start another day. My husband Joe goes out to do the morning chores, then comes in and washes up for work. He reminds me to let the chickens out later. We are averaging 25 eggs a day. ... I fix Joe’s breakfast, pack his lunch and fill his jug with ice and water.” I would go on, but I can’t bear it.
Middletown? You gotta be kidding. Her atrocious writing takes a step back in time, around 150 years or so. She even uses the word "forenoon." Ugh! I just don’t fucking understand it. Who are you pleasing, Mrs. Eicher, when you live your life the way you do? Your god? I’m sure your god likes you more than your next-door neighbor because you use a non-electric water softener and the neighbor opted for something commonsensical.
C’mon, everyone. Let’s embrace a cult that sucks every bit of happiness and excitement out of you like a shop-vac picking up powdered sugar. Let us throw away the Industrial Revolution, the evolution of mind and theory and the hard work of our generations past — who spent most of their lives working to make ours better — so we can please a “father” whose face we’ve never seen, nor his presence felt.
I have an idea. I’m gonna build a big, glamorous, neon-lit spectacle. Bright lights, flashy cars, the works ... A new titty bar! Hell yeah. Lovina and Joe can bring their 14 lonesome, incestuous children and let them see fresh meat.