Peter and Andrew – 10th Letter

To my dear friend Andrew,

I write to you with foot stuffed securely in mouth. As I write you this letter, I have right next to me on my desk a reply letter from none other than Mr. Ted Kooser! I read through it, it’s a bit cryptic (you oddball poets are all the same) and there’s a poem written at the bottom. I won’t ruin the surprise for you so I won’t re-write it, but enclosed is the letter from Mr. Kooser. Congratulations, you’ve officially made me look like an idiot for doubting that you’d ever make something of yourself besides night-manager at Wendy’s.

I’m very excited to hear that you’ve finally made it to California and are making friends (although slightly, er, eccentric, they seem kinda cool) and doing what you love. You’re living the AMERICAN DREAM my friend, and if your parents weren’t so concerned with getting you out of jail so often they’d be very proud of you. I have to say, and this may be the first and only time I’ll ever say this, I’m mildly jealous of you. Ugh, I feel all icky after saying that.

I would like to apologize for my bitterness towards you in my last letter. I hope you understand how difficult it is for me to continue my life without Cheryl. Since that fateful night I now call “The Evening of Sullen Intrascrotal Hematoma” I’ve gotten fired for an intense slide in production (who could blame me?) and have been watching re-runs of Pete and Pete and eating nothing but Manwiches. I was extremely broken up about the situation, as you can tell. I finally got a chance to speak with Cheryl recently and I got a chance to find out how much of a filthy whore-skank she really is. She felt that since the relationship is over and there’s no need to please the other person, it was alright for her to list the dudes she had slept with while we were dating. There were… a couple.

So I’ve reached an impasse. Do I stick here with no job, girl, or friends? Well, as fun as it might seem, I may be done with this boring life I’m leading. If your offer still stands, I’m packing up and moving to California to finally pursue my life-long dream of becoming a marine life taxidermist. I KNOW, it sounds crazy, but this just may be the thing that finally makes me happy! I’m sending over your porn stash and some of my stuff right now and I’ll be in San Francisco International Airport a week from today. GET READY! It’s time to reunite the devastating duo of Pete and Andy. PREPARE FOR IMPACT!

Foreverfully the dudest of your friends,

Pete

Peter and Andrew – 8th Letter

Andrew,

As of now there is no word back from Mr. Kooser. I’m sure he will be writing back any day now, so I’ll make sure to contact you as soon as possible.

I want to congratulate you on ruining not only my wine-tasting party but also my life while being more than 2,000 miles away. “How on earth did I do that?” you might ask. Well, things were going fairly well, Arthur, Laurie, Cheryl and I were having a great time. I was getting progressively drunker while still getting by on my minimal wine-knowledge by calling everything I tasted “grape-y.” That is, until Arthur mentioned that he read the most bizarre and hilarious news article earlier that morning while browsing the internet at work. He asked to use my computer to show it to us and I obliged, so we all crowded around the computer to check out this “crazy” story.

Well Andy, apparently news from Salt Lake City travels pretty fast because lo and behold, there on my computer screen in front of me was my friend Andrew, screaming his head off, being dragged away by the police, and throwing Burger King napkins at everyone he saw. Cheryl was noticeably peeved, but then we actually read the article. Everyone got a good laugh at it, that is, until the following excerpt:

…As the crazed man was finally being pulled into a police cruiser, he blurted out “Tell Peter thanks for all the money he recently sent and tell his disease-ridden wench of a girlfriend to go to hell and stay out of my room! BLACK POWER!”

Oh boy, did Art and Laurie every get a good chuckle out of THAT quote. Cheryl, on the other hand, was less than pleased, and she conveyed that feeling to me by trying to put her knee through my testicles. She explained that this was the reason why she could never be serious with me (the reason, I’m assuming, is you) and proceeded to pick up her bag and storm out of the apartment. This was obviously very awkward for Art and Laurie, who asked if I needed help cleaning up before grabbing their things and leaving before I could answer them.

So, thanks again for destroying the one thing about my life that made me really happy. I won’t be sending you any money, for obvious reasons. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask, so I can remind you of that time that you ruined my life.

Please get to California safely. As much as I hate you right now, part of me still doesn’t want you to die.

Be safe,

Peter


Peter and Andrew – 6th Letter

Andrew,

I hate to break this to you, but if you were confronted by law enforcement for doing something you weren’t supposed to do and detained for any length of time for performing said action, you were arrested. Just so you’re aware of and completely clear on your situation, you were definitely arrested.

I’ve got some good news and some bad news. First the bad stuff: no letter from Ted Kooser, sorry man. I wouldn’t give up hope yet, though. I mean, he’s probably a very busy guy. I’m sure he’s got piles and piles of poems that he’s busy laureatting and he just hasn’t gotten to yours yet. Just give it some time.

And now for the GOOD NEWS (albeit very small good news)! Some chump(s) left $5.06 in your (new and improved!) donation bin. Some geezer passing by must have mistaken it for some kids with cancer charity it tossed in whatever they had in their back pocket. “Better I give it to this sketchy bucket than the government steal it and give it away to those dang-darnin’ (enter racial slur here).”

Despite your best efforts, I finally got into your room! It only took a grappling hook and a brick, but I did it. Honestly though, I sort of wish I had never gone in there. I’m finding it very difficult to unsee most of the things I saw in there, whether it be the half-rotten remains of James Patterson, Emperor of The Currents or the statuettes of what appears to be Cheryl participating in lewd sexual acts with carious barn yard animals. You’re a deeply, deeply disturbed individual. I luckily was able to get most of the pron out before Cheryl came over, however the neighbors have a new nickname for me: “Creepy-looking Pervert” (come on, it’s not even that clever). Don’t worry about your porn, it’s in storage and you can send for it when the time right (soon, please make that time soon).

Speaking of James Patterson, Emperor of The Currents…

enclosed please find the half-rotten remains of James Patterson, Emperor of The Currents! I figured you’d like a travel companion, and who better than the partially-mummified remains of the guinea pig that’s made my apartment smell like death? I bet you were excited when you had a package waiting for you at the Post Office, weren’t you?

I’m glad I took care of the smell situation when I did, because Cheryl and I are having a couple of her friends over my apartment for a wine-tasting get-together. I’ll admit, I don’t know much about tasting wine, but how hard could it be (“this tastes like grape juice, but grape juice that will get you FUCKED UP!”)? Really I’m just trying to get to know her friends better so she’ll be more comfortable to take the “next step.” ::crosses fingers::

Oh man, that meeting. In a nutshell, the meeting consisted of three members of upper-management, my manager and a sort-of-my-manager-but-not-really-my-boss-but-can-tell-me-what-to-do (I call him my Mini-Boss… like Protoman) explaining for a good hour and a half how they’re “very disappointed in my work,” and “are not entirely sure what I do here.” I mean, COME ON! I’m the assistant to the assistant team-leader in charge of developmental synergy and research juxtaposition! WHAT DON’T I DO!? Man, sometimes I feel so unappreciated for all the work I do there.

I’m glad to see you showing interest in my goings-ons. Usually the only time you ask me about my life is when you’re buttering me up to ask me for something.

Wait. You’re not about to ask me for money again, are you? You know Cheryl will be so pissed if she finds out about this!

I’m curious to find out what Slam-Poetry in Salt Lake City is like. All dissin’ people’s 4th wife and declaring “ain’t nobody worshippin’ like I be worhippin’!” Let me know how that turns out, it sounds absolutely ridiculous and perfect for you.

Here’s hoping you don’t offend too many SLC’ers, I hear they can kick you out pretty quickly for the most minor of things (although I’m sure getting kicked out is old hat for you, at this point).

DON’T DIE!

Pete

Peter and Andrew – 4th Letter

Andrew,

You should write a poem about space cars, they sound totally cool. Think about it; rocket-cars transporting astronauts to space-work and rocket-minivans transporting their wives to space-pilates class. Space-cars man, that shit’s crazy.

Judging by the explanation you gave me, it seems to me that any poem can be construed to mean anything. Like, the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” could represent your Dad, the “rain” represents his raging alcoholism and love for bare-knuckle boxing your dog and the “sun” could mean it finally dawning on him that he loves dudes and his running away to Chile with Armando. You see? It all makes sense now that I made some vague connections and talked down to somebody in a holier-than-thou tone. Do you think I was born to be a poetry critic after all?

I’m just kidding, man. I don’t mean to make fun. I guess I just never got poetry, you know? What makes it good? Are the best poets the ones that can bury any sense of meaning under layer upon layer of obtuse metaphors?

Actually, why don’t you get Mr. Kooser to answer me, since you’re so positive you’re going to be meeting him? I honestly couldn’t imagine him letting some random fan into his house, but you’ve certainly impressed me with your resourcefulness thus far. I’m sure you’ll be able to lure him in with the old “if I spend $100 dollars on you, you’re morally obligated to be my friend” trick. Then, he’ll give you all his poetry secrets and you’ll get to California and write the classic American epic and make millions of dollars, all thanks to the generous gift by your friend Pete.

But more than likely he’ll just call the cops on you. Just make sure to not get busted for anything but trespassing.

I called a locksmith to try to get into your room (changing the lock, very mature) but he said there was still something on the other side of the door that was keeping him from opening it.
A. What the fuck did you do?
B. How do I fix it?
There’s a wretched smell coming from in there and I can’t do anything about it but fill my apartment with scented candles. The apartment smells like the collection of gifts that I got for every girl that I knew well enough to feel obligated to buy a gift for but not well enough to know what they actually like.

I wish Cheryl and you got along better. You know, if we get married (oh no, I hope I didn’t jinx it), you’d have to be best man, which means you’d be forced to say something nice about her in your speech. You can’t put too much blame on her for the untimely death of James Patterson, Emperor of The Currents, the note you left for her was one of your poems. I doubt she understood it.

Speaking of the “poet’s bender,” I was cleaning out my closet and found a poem you wrote during that week of debauchery. Here it is (edited without the dots and slashes, for legibility purposes):

SHOTS YOU FUCKING BITCHES
RRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAARGH!
Peter’s a pussy, alliteration=truth
Check out the rack on that specialty pie
No leave? We’re only not seeing!

Oh man, I still feel like I’m recovering from that.

If you’re in jail by the time you get this, be someone’s bitch or kill someone the first day. That’s the only way you’ll be protected.

I’ll try to save up in case I have to wire you bail money, but Cheryl yelled at me sending you money last time. I’ll see what I can do.

For the love of God take care of yourself.

-Peter

Peter and Andrew – 2nd Letter

Andrew,

I’m excited to hear that you’re not dead. Mostly because you’re my life-long friend, but partially because you proved my mother wrong in saying that you “wouldn’t last three days” without me “babysitting” you. Needless to say, I made a killing off that bet. Enclosed please find part of the winnings, $100. I suppose I owe you some for taking enough care of yourself that you didn’t die after being away from home for three days.

I’m a little upset you didn’t take my offer of the train ticket, but I’ll admit that I admire your resolution to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and make something of yourself. As much as I disagree with your choice of poetry writing; it’s appeal has gone the way of the Byzantine Empire; I respect the assertiveness of your decision. I could have easily gotten you a job pushing papers at Global Synergy Limited, you know. They made me assistant resource coordinator, I’m starting to hold a little sway there! I guess a “normal” job wouldn’t really be your thing, though. You were always one to go against the grain.

By the way, please stop calling it a “poet’s beard.” If you’re going to be giving your beard a nickname, call it by what it really is: your “long, dirty, uneven, ragged, axe-murderer beard.” There’s a reason why no one will let you stay the night, and it’s because you look homeless. There are only two types of people who let in people who look homeless: people who work at HOMELESS shelters and people who like to murder homeless people because it’s easy to get away with. Please shave that fucking thing.

I see a marked improvement in your poetry, Andy. I’ll admit, the true meaning must be going over my head, but the words paint an interesting picture. It makes me think of cars… but in space. Space-Cars, I guess (am I missing something here?). I am still, however, standing strongly by my theory that your “signature” style gives me a fucking migraine.

I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that things with Cheryl and me are going great! She’s been in a great mood the past couple of days and she even mentioned possibly moving in! How awesome is that? I wish you could see her in this kind of mood, but she’s been like this ever since you… oh. Well that explains her pushiness for offering the train ticket. Let’s be honest, man, you guys hardly ever got along. Remember the guinea pig thing?

You’ll be receiving this at the Omaha post office, I hope. I decided to splurge on the postage since I doubt there are many internet cafes in Nebraska. Have you ever even been outside of New York before this?

There was no money in the donation can, it was a terrible idea to begin with. The sign on it said “Help Andy’s Cause,” but NO ONE KNEW YOU WERE LIVING THERE! You were hiding from the IRS, remember? No one knew who “Andy” was.

Please, please, please take this money and get yourself safely to California. I don’t like the idea of you wandering around the United States anymore.

I’m excited about hearing back from you. For the love of God take care of yourself.

-Peter