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I had a tolerable day at work this week. Tolerable due to my written correspondence with two prisoners who stood out in a sea of prisoners who do not stand out. The first was from "Mr. Balzerini." I don't even remember what he was whining about, but his name is Balzerini. That alone eclipses his malcontent literature.
The second was Mr. Womack. LeeAnn Womack is, of course, the author and performer of a god awful song I used to have to listen to ad-naseum in Longs Drugs whilst I stacked creamed corn in pyramids. So I finished a long and professional response to Mr. Womack, signed my name and branch, and typed: "PS. I hope you dance."
I thought about taking my name off it, traveling incognito to a mailbox in a far away land where no one could ever trace my smartassness and depositing it, but I ended up leaning on the backspace key dejectedly. Government, you have squelched my creativity again.
The second was Mr. Womack. LeeAnn Womack is, of course, the author and performer of a god awful song I used to have to listen to ad-naseum in Longs Drugs whilst I stacked creamed corn in pyramids. So I finished a long and professional response to Mr. Womack, signed my name and branch, and typed: "PS. I hope you dance."
I thought about taking my name off it, traveling incognito to a mailbox in a far away land where no one could ever trace my smartassness and depositing it, but I ended up leaning on the backspace key dejectedly. Government, you have squelched my creativity again.
