Tuesday, December 14, 2010

I Really Shouldn't Be Proud Of This But...

This is a reply I wrote for my friend Neil's blog post....

well I don't know about all that. I am a very busy man and don't really have the time to read blogs like these, but I had my assistant give me the gist of it and I must strongly disagree (because I never do anything weakly)...

I mean what's wrong with orphans flying kites in the rain? they don't have parents for god sakes they should be able to fly a kites in what every situation they want, in the rain, in the snow, at the bottom of the sea, where ever. These kids have led very challenging lives and what ever twisted act of anti-social behavior gives them a glimmer of light in their' hopelessly pointless lives is more than acceptable in my book (the Exorcist). Further more as a being capable of reproduction I would actually prefer rainy days being specifically for orphan kite flying. I don't like the thought of one of my own unwanted children sharing a park, or mountain field with a brunch of orphans. Because really, who can enjoy kite flying with that around? I mean have you ever watched an orphan fly a kite? They don't smile they don't run or laugh, they don't even look up at the kite, they just hold the sting and stand in place and look at their' shoes. I once saw one, her kite wasn't even in the air. Instead it lay on the ground a just a few feet anyway from her. Sometimes catching little gusts of wind that would lift a corner just enough to give the slightest bit of hope that it might take off and sore high above the threes, and be lifted to a place free from the horrors of this world. Free from gruel, free from scrubbing floor, free from neglect, and free from group toilets. But alas, the corner would dip and the despondent girl, standing so still it was as though her legs were as broken as her heart, string still in hand, let out the slightest sigh, barely visible to the naked eye followed by the gentle rhythm of silent sobbing. Depressing, is this special brand of kite agony something I want my little punishments from God exposed to? No, because it would be my job as a broken spirited absentee parent to protect them from real life. So in summation you are a monster everything you think is wrong, and you should get on your knees and thank me for this brief exposure to my genius.

Brad Taylor (dictated but not read)


  1. From the desk of Adjunct Professor Neil Hiatt

    I must wholeheartedly disagree with you Sir...or Madam, depending on when you read this, as well as when your gender reassignment surgery was scheduled (by the way kudos to you for finally taking the steps to correct God's mistake). Your support of this orphan kite flying is just the response I would expect from the liberal media (by liberal I mean Jew and by media I mean the tin can phones we have connected between our tree houses with string). Orphan kite flying is a sin against nature and against God's will. If God wanted orphans to fly kites they would have been born with a kite in hand...also they would have been born with parents. As for your slanderous statements against gruel, floor scrubbing, neglect, and the joys of group toiletry I say BALDERDASH and POPPYCOCK! Pure BALDERCOCK! If not scrubbing floors and peeing in ice filled troughs than what non-kite-flying, character building exercise would you suggest for these unwanted beings? Laughing? When it comes to orphans there should be no laughter! Only the sound of feelings being suppressed into their subconscious much like gruel being impacted into their colons. It's this free-living, socialist, kite-flying, nonsense that has damaged the good reputation of StarbuckJesusland L.L.C (Formerly known as the U.S.A.)

    So in closing I must say that if you say I am wrong, logic then dictates that I must be right. Because no one attacks people who are wrong except for wrong people who hate people who are right people...right people like me...


    Neil Hiatt

  2. A letter from the Brad Taylor Psychiatric division at Harvard University.
    Good day sir my Name is Dr. Charles B. Newterhouse II and I am the Chief Phycologist working in the Brad Taylor Psychiatric Ward. Brad Taylor is a man of incredible brilliance, so much so that it is believed his genius may be a danger to others so Harvard has spared no expense on having an entire wing cleared for this one important person. Now the reason I am writing you today is that months back Brad asked me specifically to deliver his retort on this matter. After diligent dictation I analyzed the document discovering that it was beyond my comprehension. When Brad was later asked to explain the document he shouted that he was out of juice and that he needed more juice and then he proceeded to throw a cuisinart across the room. This of course being typical response of a genius being asked to repeat himself. So for the last few months I and my colleges from the literary, and physics departments at Harvard have been able to extract this at best bastardized version of Brad's original…

    Dear Sir
    It's has come to my attention the the pigeons of ignorance have made lodging in the encephalon of your folic Anellini. As earth worms of regret french toast their' needles in cyborg chimps of christmas past. the seething umbrella winks at the noble sailor scraping glorious tofu from etruscan granger bread. For I and I alone have crest the stapling forebodence where in spherical implosions of the hypothalamus become actualized. Where Obtuse Became Acute, where obvious became oblivious, where Bruce Wayne became Wayne Gretzky! Where tangible automations of nebulous Percolation become frosty and dilated with occipital dippings. The height of existential permutation among divisions of geographical carrot cake of the soul. And it is with this knowledge that I armor my words, words that trickle though the longitudes and disable the blood beetle hives beneath the Avajo. For tungsten toaster labradoodle, nerm nerm nerm kittet taktkorls (incoherent grunting) fish boat droppings (missing translation) carpet bagger. From the depths may calamity take thee for polly want a shedding while personified impishness be on the cup cake of your heart….

    At this point Brad began shouting and eating the feathers from his pillows, claiming they knew his true identity and must be destroyed to protect his loved ones. At this point I feel I should step my bounds and make a suggestion to you; what ever dispute you are having with Brad it would be wise to set it aside. As I have previously mentioned Brad is a man of Special genius to argue with him is to argue with god himself…about NASCAR, it just wouldn't make sense.

    Cordially yours
    Dr. Charles B. Newterhouse II PHD

  3. To Dr. Charles B. Newterhouse II PHD (if that is your real name),

    I have been reading over your correspondence for a long time now. It has taken so long for me to respond because, for reasons that escapes me, your letter was written in feces on the back of a McDonald's takeout bag and therefore was hard to decipher. The receipt for the meal still located within the bag and the purchaser being listed as "Bradley C. Taylor, Master of Ceremonies and ham detective." (I do hope that the bacon McGriddle and hash brown combo was to his satisfaction).

    So, "Doctor," please excuse me if I do not fully believe that this letter was real...or that you in fact went to Harvard. Seeing that you have the grammar, penmanship, and protruding jaw of a Yale graduate. Also, I hardly agree that a doctorate in Theatre Tech. qualifies you to head up a psychological study on Mr. Taylor in any way, shape, or form. Also when I looked up the address for "The Brad Taylor Psychiatric Ward"
    I was surprised to find the only listing for said address was located in the back alley of a porno theatre that catered specifically to homosexual leather fetishists...but I digress.

    I regret to inform you though, that you have been the victim of an elaborate ruse. From the "genius" message that Mr. Taylor has said to have written I have found some vast inconsistencies.

    First and foremost - Brad's entire letter is a plagiarized thievery from the Avant-Garde street performer and weekend Grover Cleveland impersonator, Phineus T. Cumberknob. The passage accredited to Brad was originally posted in Mr. Cumberknob's Book "A Long Days Journey Into Fisting - The Phineus T. Cumberknob Story".

    A true genius, Phineus T. Cumberknob is a colleague and former lover of mine, my wife, my dog, Cher, and my wife again. So I do not appreciate this copyright infringement nor the status of "genius" that you have bestowed on the charlatan Brad Taylor. Genius, as all should know, is reserved for the elite few. Such as, Stephen Hawking, Stephen Segal, that guy who goes to Starbucks just to work on his screenplay, and people with hipster glasses (the underground kind).

    I know it must be hard to be on the receiving end of such trickery, but I assure you that you are not the first to fall for this kind of cruelty at the hands of Brad Taylor.

    For example in between the years 2002-2003 it was Brad Taylor who convinced former President Bush that there were WMD's in Iraq. He did this by jingling a pair of toy car keys in front of a picture of Saddam Hussein and repeating the word "Nuclear" over and over, but pronouncing the word as "New-Q-lur."

    I do hope that after I send my findings to the associated press and watch your research fall like Kiristie Alley on Dancing With The Stars, that you can pick yourself up and move on with your life. Maybe you can finish that stage musical version of "Road House" that you have been talking about...maybe not...to be honest I don't really care.

    So, in conclusion I would find it wise for your career to stop your research with Brad and find greener pastures.

    Yours in writing,

    Neil Hiatt