2008 Woodie Awards
Letters to the Awesome Editor
Issue date: 4/1/04 Section: We Don't Care What You Think
Once again, it is time for the April Fool's Day edition of The Quindecim. The staff realizes that everyone does not have the same sense of humor as we do; we did not intend to offend. Resemblances to any factual persons or events in these articles, are horrible, unintentional accidents.
Good Bye Willy Wonka
The writer of this letter wishes that her feelings be shared publicly. Composed by Scott Sell and Brian Kellerman for Mildred.
Dear William,
I'm writing this letter on the train ride home from your place on Sunday and my thought is that this is the last one I'll be sending to you. I'll be blunt: things aren't working out for us, Will, and I hope you have been sensing that. I've tried to be open-minded and patient with you, but the past four months have been more than I can handle. You're no longer the man I fell in love with last year and I feel all the magic has disappeared. You have no idea how many times I left the factory after a weekend with you and just cried my eyes out.
Why has it taken me so long to tell you? Well, it's quite difficult managing getting words out of my mouth when you insist with that allegorical horsesh*t of yours. Looking back on the way things were, I suppose I was taken by your chocolate egg laying geese and gigantic lollipops and the way you waxed ever so philosophically about the most mundane things. The things you would say that I used to find so cute and thought-provoking and funny are now just irritating to the point of me wanting to strangle you. I mean, Jesus Christ, Will, what is it that Freud said? "Sometimes a cigar is just a f*cking cigar". Or, in your case, a car with bubbles coming out of it.
The fact that you never want to leave the factory to take me out for dinner or to do anything is another huge part of it. Why do we always have to sleep at your place? What's wrong with my apartment? I at least have fresh vegetables and other things to eat besides those giant gummy bears and edible honey cups. Do you know what it's like sleeping with someone who never brushes his teeth? I'll tell you, it's disgusting; I'm surprised your mouth isn't full of cavities. The things you wanted to do with the oompa-loompas this weekend was certainly the last straw and it showed me how clearly sick you are. The worst part is that you didn't even ask me if it was OK if they watched: you just blew on that little flute of yours and invited them in like it was some sort of party. Well, it wasn't a party for me and I'll be honest in telling you that I don't feel comfortable with those stupid little men and I never did.
I also told you long ago that I'd never again ride on the chocolate riverboat. That tunnel freaked me out enough to never want to step foot on it again, but what do you do? You practice that ridiculous song every damn night, screaming about the "rowers rowing" and all that. What are you trying to prove anyway? Oh, and that fake limp has to go, for the love of God. And the cane, too. The hat can stay because your hair is just too unruly for words.
The last thing I'd like to make perfectly clear to you is that your idea to bring other human beings to your factory, children no less, and all the golden ticket business is ridiculous. Thinking that people would actually benefit from fizzy lifting drinks and whatnot is a pipe dream. The kids might like that sort of thing at first, but I know that they'll get themselves in too deep and problems will arise, no doubt about it. You don't even have government regulations on any of those machines. You're going to mess up those children for life, so I hope it weighs on your conscience if everything blows up in your face.
I've said all I needed to say, but sadly, I need to lower the boom: Slugworth and I have something going on; it has been going on for over a month now. At this point, I don't really care what you think about the man. He's a true gentleman and is caring and generous (not like you, always being stingy with your gobstoppers). And he can actually get through a day without having to lick any fruit-flavored wallpaper (which is revolting, by the way. Do you know how many germs must be festering there?). I suppose that every girl yearns to be treated with a certain amount of passion, but when that passion is in the form of gum that tastes like a baked potato, a girl has to rethink her station in life.
Come to think of it, I guess I've just been a bit blind. Looking over this laundry list of grievances, it occurs to me how much time I've wasted with you: your whole world of singing and chocolate and small children is perverse and I think all your candy-coated goodness is just a desperate cry for help. Do yourself a favor and fly your great glass elevator right into a psychiatrist's office because you need the help. Please take care of yourself and don't call me.
Sincerely,
Mildred
Correction For the 2003 April Fool's Day Issue
Dear Editor,
I am writing to you to correct some misinformation that appeared in your April 1, 2003 issue of The Undecim. On page 6 in the campus security blotter, you state that the Goucher College Republicans were fined $1,500 for burning all the books in the library with "French" in their titles; this is in fact not entirely true. While destroying books with "French" in their title was a stated objective, our primary goal was destroying all out of date critiques of feminist literature written by currently unemployed Goucher graduates. After successfully destroying all such books, the library's collection has been reduced to three volumes: Norman Podhortz's Greatest Speeches; The US Congressional Records' Three Bills that did not pass committee, and the autobiography of Busta Bloodvessel, lead singer for Bad Manners.
Yours truly,
Jonathan Schuyler
Former Goucher Republican President
Extremely Offended
The following letter was submitted 27 times online on December 7, 2003 from vincentjw@earhouse.net.
Dear Editor,
I would just like to say, pump pump..
Good Bye Willy Wonka
The writer of this letter wishes that her feelings be shared publicly. Composed by Scott Sell and Brian Kellerman for Mildred.
Dear William,
I'm writing this letter on the train ride home from your place on Sunday and my thought is that this is the last one I'll be sending to you. I'll be blunt: things aren't working out for us, Will, and I hope you have been sensing that. I've tried to be open-minded and patient with you, but the past four months have been more than I can handle. You're no longer the man I fell in love with last year and I feel all the magic has disappeared. You have no idea how many times I left the factory after a weekend with you and just cried my eyes out.
Why has it taken me so long to tell you? Well, it's quite difficult managing getting words out of my mouth when you insist with that allegorical horsesh*t of yours. Looking back on the way things were, I suppose I was taken by your chocolate egg laying geese and gigantic lollipops and the way you waxed ever so philosophically about the most mundane things. The things you would say that I used to find so cute and thought-provoking and funny are now just irritating to the point of me wanting to strangle you. I mean, Jesus Christ, Will, what is it that Freud said? "Sometimes a cigar is just a f*cking cigar". Or, in your case, a car with bubbles coming out of it.
The fact that you never want to leave the factory to take me out for dinner or to do anything is another huge part of it. Why do we always have to sleep at your place? What's wrong with my apartment? I at least have fresh vegetables and other things to eat besides those giant gummy bears and edible honey cups. Do you know what it's like sleeping with someone who never brushes his teeth? I'll tell you, it's disgusting; I'm surprised your mouth isn't full of cavities. The things you wanted to do with the oompa-loompas this weekend was certainly the last straw and it showed me how clearly sick you are. The worst part is that you didn't even ask me if it was OK if they watched: you just blew on that little flute of yours and invited them in like it was some sort of party. Well, it wasn't a party for me and I'll be honest in telling you that I don't feel comfortable with those stupid little men and I never did.
I also told you long ago that I'd never again ride on the chocolate riverboat. That tunnel freaked me out enough to never want to step foot on it again, but what do you do? You practice that ridiculous song every damn night, screaming about the "rowers rowing" and all that. What are you trying to prove anyway? Oh, and that fake limp has to go, for the love of God. And the cane, too. The hat can stay because your hair is just too unruly for words.
The last thing I'd like to make perfectly clear to you is that your idea to bring other human beings to your factory, children no less, and all the golden ticket business is ridiculous. Thinking that people would actually benefit from fizzy lifting drinks and whatnot is a pipe dream. The kids might like that sort of thing at first, but I know that they'll get themselves in too deep and problems will arise, no doubt about it. You don't even have government regulations on any of those machines. You're going to mess up those children for life, so I hope it weighs on your conscience if everything blows up in your face.
I've said all I needed to say, but sadly, I need to lower the boom: Slugworth and I have something going on; it has been going on for over a month now. At this point, I don't really care what you think about the man. He's a true gentleman and is caring and generous (not like you, always being stingy with your gobstoppers). And he can actually get through a day without having to lick any fruit-flavored wallpaper (which is revolting, by the way. Do you know how many germs must be festering there?). I suppose that every girl yearns to be treated with a certain amount of passion, but when that passion is in the form of gum that tastes like a baked potato, a girl has to rethink her station in life.
Come to think of it, I guess I've just been a bit blind. Looking over this laundry list of grievances, it occurs to me how much time I've wasted with you: your whole world of singing and chocolate and small children is perverse and I think all your candy-coated goodness is just a desperate cry for help. Do yourself a favor and fly your great glass elevator right into a psychiatrist's office because you need the help. Please take care of yourself and don't call me.
Sincerely,
Mildred
Correction For the 2003 April Fool's Day Issue
Dear Editor,
I am writing to you to correct some misinformation that appeared in your April 1, 2003 issue of The Undecim. On page 6 in the campus security blotter, you state that the Goucher College Republicans were fined $1,500 for burning all the books in the library with "French" in their titles; this is in fact not entirely true. While destroying books with "French" in their title was a stated objective, our primary goal was destroying all out of date critiques of feminist literature written by currently unemployed Goucher graduates. After successfully destroying all such books, the library's collection has been reduced to three volumes: Norman Podhortz's Greatest Speeches; The US Congressional Records' Three Bills that did not pass committee, and the autobiography of Busta Bloodvessel, lead singer for Bad Manners.
Yours truly,
Jonathan Schuyler
Former Goucher Republican President
Extremely Offended
The following letter was submitted 27 times online on December 7, 2003 from vincentjw@earhouse.net.
Dear Editor,
I would just like to say, pump pump..
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