My Dear Madam:
It has come to my attention that you are, in fact, a brain-dead mongoloid. While not apparent at first glance, further interaction proves what the normal sized forehead hides. You lack of comprehension of even the basest functions of logic, reason and rational thought compound to present me with a constant choice: shuffle you loose the mortal coil or bite my tongue, bide my time and return to my cubicle cave, my mind scathed, bordering on seriously wounded.
I write this not so much to point out to the world your glaring inadequacy, rather, to congratulate you for living so long with this condition. You are an encouragement to optimists everywhere. A beacon, if you will, on the horizon of despair. That you have managed to survive this long with absolutely no demonstrable skill gives hope to them all. I, on the other hand, not being an optimist, have donned my burlap sack, scattered ashes about my head, and contemplate ritual suicide at the troubling thought that not being a moron, I will never advance. There is no serenity prayer, no mantra, no bumper sticker slogan powerful enough to keep me going under current circumstances. That which compels me is simply the dream that one day to will find yourself incorrect in your reading of the pedestrian signaling at a busy intersection, lying under a city bus, with tire-tread imprints lining your body.
With hope...
Moe
Forgot to sign it.
Edited, Tue Feb 17 11:00:27 2004 by MoebiusLord