| Subject: Creating Invitations as Works of Art |
Author:
G-Money
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: 17:22:59 04/09/02 Tue
I'm posting this because I'm proud of it in someway. This is an actual invitation I sent out to people, A. because I'm a major tool and B. because I believe that everything should now be done with a sense of ironic and artistic sensibility. I think everyone should write and recieve letters like this.
To wit:
You are cordially invited to: the estate of the most pompous George Chimples the Fifth, this Friday, for a one time only viewing of: John Hughes’ staple of the ‘80s, “The Breakfast Club.” Immediately following the show, there will be a roundtable discussion of the film as it relates to Soren Kierkegaard’s philosophical text “Sickness Unto Death.” Therein, Kierkegaard’s five varieties of despair shall be identified with the five main characters (the characters being: the Jock, the Brain, the Criminal [to quote Jason Mewes, aka Jay of the duo Jay and Silent Bob: “Judd Nelson. He was fucking harsh!], the Princess and the Kook). This discussion will be transmitted via amateur ham radio to Master Chimples’ Existentialism professor, the honored and esteemed Dr. Gibbs, no doubt garnering him copious amounts of extra credit points (making up for all those journal entries he never did). If necessary, the company shall listen to the Existentialism soundtrack, as mixed by the reputable DJ Groove Champion and curse loudly/belligerently/vociferously in French. Post-discussion, a listening party will be organized in order to properly dissect and disseminate the recordings of Country Classics Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. There may even be brief guest appearances by such notables as Waylon Jennings, Lorne Green, Marty Robbins, Gene Pitney, and ex-president Rutherford B. Hayes. Norwegians need not apply. Cocktails and gustatory delights will be provided. Firearms and/or small woodland animals will not. Frolicking shall abound.
A note from the host: (Imagine this delivered to you by a grotesque, deformed dwarf wearing a violently red tuxedo, written on a scroll of yellowed parchment in green ink. The handwriting is jittery, as if it were transcribed during a jaunty train ride through the countryside [it was], and on the bottom of the page is the host’s family crest, depicting a giant trout devouring Neil Armstrong [ten points to anyone who gets that reference]. The parchment smells like the seaside, that is to say, like salt and sand and rotting fish, not to mention small children lathered up with the suntan lotion that comes in the pink bottle with the picture of that chick getting her suit pulled down by a black dog. Do you dig what I’m laying on you, brother?)
‘August comrades, this Friday marks a momentous occasion, that occasion being the showing for the first time ever of “The Breakfast Club.” Please attend and make merry. Do not attend and make malevolence, for this host shall be prepared to render a forthright and most profound crotch-kicking to any guests attempting to do so. *Note: the aforementioned crotch-kicking shall only be delivered unto the visitants of the male persuasion. Feminine sorts shall merely be requested to exuent in a soft, but firm tone.
Where am I going with this... Oh, quite. The starting time is as of yet undetermined. Since I am a most meek and subservient host, I ask of you this: What hour of commencement is most pleasing to you, the visitor? I shall, with most dishonored and unworthy hands, take the times down in Crayola Crayon (of the hue “brick red”) and then at random, select the time that is most difficult for you to make. For I am lowly and inept and secretly ironic. Yet, so as to have a contingency plan, the tentative timing will as of yet be at the Seventh Hour, that being seven o’clock (PM) at night. Subject to change of course. Oh, and if I have forgotten anyone’s siblings/significant others, as I am sometimes known to do, feel free to drag them along as well.
And so I leave you with the words of Hubert Selby Jr, written in the year of our Lord 1999:
“It seems to me that we all have a dream of our own, our own personal vision, our own individual way of giving, but for many reasons we are afraid to pursue it, or to even recognize and accept its existence. But to deny our vision is to sell our soul. Getting is living a lie, turning our back on the truth, and Visions are glimpses of the truth: Obviously nothing external can truly nurture my inner life, my Vision.
‘What happens when I turn my back on my Vision and spend my time and energy getting the stuff of the American Dream? I become agitated, uncomfortable in my own skin, because the guilt of abandoning my ‘Self/self,’ of deserting my Vision, forces me to apologize for my existence, to need to prove myself by approaching life as if it’s a competition. I have to keep getting stuff in an attempt to appease and satisfy that vague sense of discontent that worms its way through me.”
With peace, trust and honor,
As well as Love and Rockets,
I remain,
Ever yours,
Until I depart from this sweet, sullen blue orb,
Sincerely,
And without fear of condemnation,
For now unto the ages of ages,
Amen.
George Chimples the Fifth
Duke of Yorkshire
Earl of Strasbourg
Grand High Imperator in defense of the Motherland
Number One Dude
Fastest Gunslinger East of the Mississippi
Pontiff of Parentheses
Sultan of Swing
[Insert profanity here]
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 