Back in 2006, I went to visit my friends Ibi and Ali in London. Of course, preparing for the trip consisted of talking about every British stereotype known to man.
Top Ten Things, I, Marty O'Connor Must Do While In England
10. Do a bad Austin Powers impersonation at least once a day.
9. When visiting London Bridge, scream "Its Falling! Its Falling!"
8. Smoke weed with Prince Harry.
7. Giggle uncontrollably everytime sometime calls the bathroom the "loo"
6. Have someone ask me if I want Tea and Krumpets.
5. Take picture where it hilariously appears that I am taller than Big Ben.
4. Try to make those guards with the bushy hats laugh.
3. Make some kind of rude sexual comment where I incorporate the term "Bend it like Beckham".
2. Relentlessly insist to a tour guide to take us past Benny Hill's London mansion.
1. Hump the leg of at least one Spice Girl.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Super Bowl Commericals
So....as a marketing major with zero real world experience with marketing, I still love Super Bowl commercials, and after a brief interruption last year because my beloved "birds were in the bowl, the commercials now take precedence. Here are my rules to a surefire "winning" super bowl commercial.
Rule #1 Talking Animals- America loves em'. From beer guzzling frogs, to field goal kicking horses, to wise cracking chimpanzees, America seems to love a talking animal even though I’ve never heard a real animal talk.
Rule #2 Beer Bottles that Play football - ahh, the notorious Bud Bowl. Such wonderful marketing, much like the hilarious and friendly Joe Camel character, football playing beer bottles always made me want to drink those little athletic beers since I was 8 years old.
Rule #3 Did I mention talking animals
Rule #4 Have something embarrassing happen to Cedric the Entertainer whilst he is trying to entertain a foxy young lady. Sure fire. Can't miss
Rule #1 Talking Animals- America loves em'. From beer guzzling frogs, to field goal kicking horses, to wise cracking chimpanzees, America seems to love a talking animal even though I’ve never heard a real animal talk.
Rule #2 Beer Bottles that Play football - ahh, the notorious Bud Bowl. Such wonderful marketing, much like the hilarious and friendly Joe Camel character, football playing beer bottles always made me want to drink those little athletic beers since I was 8 years old.
Rule #3 Did I mention talking animals
Rule #4 Have something embarrassing happen to Cedric the Entertainer whilst he is trying to entertain a foxy young lady. Sure fire. Can't miss
H&M
Every morning, on my walk into work from the train, I pass the H&M store on 16th and Chestnut. Some days, the employees are out unloading a shipment. And as I look at these folks, it always makes me chuckle a bit. They are, in fact, a very trendy bunch. I am positive of the fact that you cannot be hired there unless you have some sort of unnatural haircolor, have tattoos all over your body, or have bits of metal coming from this body part and that body part. The dudes, and I use that term very loosely, all wear women's jeans. Apparently this is a trend now in the emo/goth/mad-at-your-parents community.
I've often amused myself with the idea of me trying to get a job there. I can just imagine coming in for the interview - collar shirt, sweater, jeans, and New Balance sneaks on. Hair combed nicely and the only markings on my soft pink skin are freckles and other Irish blemishes. Imagine that, me- Marty O'Connor, conservative dresser, Target fashion model, and all around beacon of masculinity (ok, you can stop giggling now) trying to get a job at H&M. They'd laugh me right outta there!
I want to go into an H&M dressed like I usually dress and have this stellar resume-- like I studied fashion in Paris, managed a Gap in Manhattan, ran a boutique in Soho, etc etc etc. Then, I'd like to have someone all "tatted" up, "pierced up", "hipped up", with a resume that includes "cashier at Adult book store", "cashier at bong shop", and I'd love to know who gets the first call back.
Then I think about it, and I am sure they see me trudging to work in my suit, noose (that's a tie to the layman), and work bag and I probably look like every other suit making the zombie walk to prison. And they probably look at me with scorn and think in my spare time for fun that I burn down rainforests, club baby seals, steal oil from Middle Eastern countries, run the Clay Aiken fan club, and sip Starbucks coffee all day.
I've often amused myself with the idea of me trying to get a job there. I can just imagine coming in for the interview - collar shirt, sweater, jeans, and New Balance sneaks on. Hair combed nicely and the only markings on my soft pink skin are freckles and other Irish blemishes. Imagine that, me- Marty O'Connor, conservative dresser, Target fashion model, and all around beacon of masculinity (ok, you can stop giggling now) trying to get a job at H&M. They'd laugh me right outta there!
I want to go into an H&M dressed like I usually dress and have this stellar resume-- like I studied fashion in Paris, managed a Gap in Manhattan, ran a boutique in Soho, etc etc etc. Then, I'd like to have someone all "tatted" up, "pierced up", "hipped up", with a resume that includes "cashier at Adult book store", "cashier at bong shop", and I'd love to know who gets the first call back.
Then I think about it, and I am sure they see me trudging to work in my suit, noose (that's a tie to the layman), and work bag and I probably look like every other suit making the zombie walk to prison. And they probably look at me with scorn and think in my spare time for fun that I burn down rainforests, club baby seals, steal oil from Middle Eastern countries, run the Clay Aiken fan club, and sip Starbucks coffee all day.
From The Archives: Keys And Kebabs
CHAPTER TWO: Keys and Kebabs
While employed at "FBI", I was told by my boss (or as I was know referring to him with family and friends as the worst human being alive) that we would be calling on colleges and universities in the south. I would also be spending a few days at the Ilco/Unican factory to see their products and learn about them more. Of course, I did not feel good about this trip at all but was stuck. I had to go. The events that happened over this week from hell would have made Hitler uncomfortable. I could have made a movie about this week that would have been funnier than Cannonball Run and Stroker Ace combined.
The trip was to be made in the first week of February and would be from a Monday to a Saturday. I grimaced at the thought of losing a weekend- and worse off, spending it with Alex the Iranian monster. I tried so hard to be positive by thinking it may be a good opportunity to learn and surely the weather would be nicer (turns out it was amazing- the only good thing to come from the trip). Soon I was told that "Mark" our New York sales rep would be coming on the journey as well. Mark turned out to be a fiftysomething Iranian guy who made Jeffrey Dahmer seem not so creepy. He came to visit our office and walked around with his hands behind his back and his jaw sticking out. I have to admit- the dude looked intent on learning and made you feel that he really was interested in every word that came out of your mouth. But he smelled like a cigarette's ass, and wore the worst Bill Cosby sweaters known to man. Little did I know how much more I would get to know this cat over the trip.
The day came, and like most normal people, I thought we would be leaving as soon as we got to work. Especially since it was snowing in Philadelphia that day. But nope, that would be easy, and with Alex, every bit of minutae had to be done the most difficult way ever. I kept prodding him throughout the day, "c'mon Alex, we better hit the road- its going to be bad out". In one Iranian ear and out the other. "Mah-ty we will be fine". I knew we wouldn't. When we left it was 5 o'clock in the afternoon at the height of rush hour after it had been snowing all day. Being the road warrior that I am, I knew it would be easier for us to head south on 295 through Jersey. Alex scoffed at the suggestion – "That's out of the way" he told me. I tried arguing, but knew my efforts would prove futile. As we got on 95, it was a parking lot. The distance from the Ben Franklin bridge to the Walt Whitman bridge is probably about 2-3 miles. It took us just over two dreadful hours. And how could I forget- when I tried to put on headphones and doze off Alex freaked out and said we could listen to his "sales" tapes. These tapes were on how to sell to people and were being narrated by some Tony Robbins flunkie. So there I am, dead tired, sitting in a traffic jam with two middle aged Iranian men listening to sales tapes. If you told me I would be in the situation when I was a kid, I would have played in oncoming traffic more often.
After we finally got out of that mess, we were told we were stopping in Washington D.C. to see Alex's son who was a student at George Washington. Oh, we weren't going to see him, he was going to drop us off in Georgetown and we had to pay for our own meals. He forcibly suggested we go to an Iranian food place. All the while I am thinking, "well, when in Rome….". So, me and my new Iranian friend Mark had a romantic meal at this Iranian place. I have to admit, I got a kebob and it was pretty good but I felt the eyes behind the counter piercing into my skin and was sure some kind of bomb or poison was basted onto my delicious chicken kebob.
After dinner, we were to meet Alex at The Four Seasons lobby at 11 PM. This is after a long day of work, driving, and sales tapes. 11 oclock comes and goes- we sit there until 1230am. I was beyond fury at this point because while most companies would consider this work, this ignorant, arrogant, cheap pompous son of a bitch wasn't going to pay us for this. And we still had to go to Richmond which is a cool two hours away. Alex pulled up and his apology was about as heartfelt as a punch in the face from your worst enemy. I just muttered Iranian curse words back to him that Mark taught me that night and got into the car.
While employed at "FBI", I was told by my boss (or as I was know referring to him with family and friends as the worst human being alive) that we would be calling on colleges and universities in the south. I would also be spending a few days at the Ilco/Unican factory to see their products and learn about them more. Of course, I did not feel good about this trip at all but was stuck. I had to go. The events that happened over this week from hell would have made Hitler uncomfortable. I could have made a movie about this week that would have been funnier than Cannonball Run and Stroker Ace combined.
The trip was to be made in the first week of February and would be from a Monday to a Saturday. I grimaced at the thought of losing a weekend- and worse off, spending it with Alex the Iranian monster. I tried so hard to be positive by thinking it may be a good opportunity to learn and surely the weather would be nicer (turns out it was amazing- the only good thing to come from the trip). Soon I was told that "Mark" our New York sales rep would be coming on the journey as well. Mark turned out to be a fiftysomething Iranian guy who made Jeffrey Dahmer seem not so creepy. He came to visit our office and walked around with his hands behind his back and his jaw sticking out. I have to admit- the dude looked intent on learning and made you feel that he really was interested in every word that came out of your mouth. But he smelled like a cigarette's ass, and wore the worst Bill Cosby sweaters known to man. Little did I know how much more I would get to know this cat over the trip.
The day came, and like most normal people, I thought we would be leaving as soon as we got to work. Especially since it was snowing in Philadelphia that day. But nope, that would be easy, and with Alex, every bit of minutae had to be done the most difficult way ever. I kept prodding him throughout the day, "c'mon Alex, we better hit the road- its going to be bad out". In one Iranian ear and out the other. "Mah-ty we will be fine". I knew we wouldn't. When we left it was 5 o'clock in the afternoon at the height of rush hour after it had been snowing all day. Being the road warrior that I am, I knew it would be easier for us to head south on 295 through Jersey. Alex scoffed at the suggestion – "That's out of the way" he told me. I tried arguing, but knew my efforts would prove futile. As we got on 95, it was a parking lot. The distance from the Ben Franklin bridge to the Walt Whitman bridge is probably about 2-3 miles. It took us just over two dreadful hours. And how could I forget- when I tried to put on headphones and doze off Alex freaked out and said we could listen to his "sales" tapes. These tapes were on how to sell to people and were being narrated by some Tony Robbins flunkie. So there I am, dead tired, sitting in a traffic jam with two middle aged Iranian men listening to sales tapes. If you told me I would be in the situation when I was a kid, I would have played in oncoming traffic more often.
After we finally got out of that mess, we were told we were stopping in Washington D.C. to see Alex's son who was a student at George Washington. Oh, we weren't going to see him, he was going to drop us off in Georgetown and we had to pay for our own meals. He forcibly suggested we go to an Iranian food place. All the while I am thinking, "well, when in Rome….". So, me and my new Iranian friend Mark had a romantic meal at this Iranian place. I have to admit, I got a kebob and it was pretty good but I felt the eyes behind the counter piercing into my skin and was sure some kind of bomb or poison was basted onto my delicious chicken kebob.
After dinner, we were to meet Alex at The Four Seasons lobby at 11 PM. This is after a long day of work, driving, and sales tapes. 11 oclock comes and goes- we sit there until 1230am. I was beyond fury at this point because while most companies would consider this work, this ignorant, arrogant, cheap pompous son of a bitch wasn't going to pay us for this. And we still had to go to Richmond which is a cool two hours away. Alex pulled up and his apology was about as heartfelt as a punch in the face from your worst enemy. I just muttered Iranian curse words back to him that Mark taught me that night and got into the car.
From the Archives: The Iranian Lock King
For a brief...dark, period of my life, I was employed as a sales rep at a lock company owned by this evil Iranian man. I have been working on a short story about my trials and tribulations there. I have two chapters almost finished.... Keep in mind...neither chapter is done, but I am including both
Chapter One: The Iranian Lock King
On a beautiful August morning back in the year 2000, I answered a call made to my Enterprise Rent-A-Car office from a man with a very thick foreign accent. It was a very stern, cold accent that reminded me of Ivan Drago's wife from Rocky IV. He wanted to be picked up but was not in our area. (Enterprise "law" forbade stealing other branch's business by picking people up in an area not in your branch's zone). Knowing my manager was breaking Enterprise law by renting to people out of our area and knowing it was going to be me stuck picking up this guy – I just went ahead and took the directions.
When I got there and picked him up, he looked just like sounded – foreign and stern. His mouth seemed to permanently frown, and he looked like a miserable human being. Just what I loved about this dreadful job- uncomfortable conversation with someone who I wasn't go to be able to understand. So as we were talking, I came to discover he was from Iran (and was trying to remember if it was Iran or Iraq that hated us). Part of me was afraid that the vehicle I picked him up in was going to burst into a fiery explosion, part of me didn't care if that happened at this miserable point of my Enterprise career. He seemed very interested in knowing about me, and was asking probing questions. I, being the chatty Cathy that I am, was singing like a canary or a Mafia turncoat. His name was Alex and turns out he owns a company over in Philadelphia that is a distributor of locks and door hardware and just fired an incompetent salesman.
For some reason, Alex took a shine to me and was hinting at the possibility of hiring me. I was entertaining this because at the time I would have taken a job as a human ashtray. I had nothing to lose, Enterprise was a lost cause and I had nothing else going. We exchanged numbers and he told me he really wanted to hire me. For once, I felt like I was getting a lucky break and would finally be on the road to success. (Since I was on the Highway to Hell presently) So as soon as I could, I sent my resume and cover letter that outlined how interested I was in the thrilling, fast-paced sexy world of locks and door hardware. After a few days, I finally got a response and a chance to interview. *Right about here I should have seen the stoplights, white flags, and Jerry Springer guests saying "Don't Go there"*
When I walked into the world headquarters of (don't giggle here) Fried Brothers Inc., aka FBI Security I should have just turned around, tucked my tail between my legs, and done my best Carl Lewis impersonation. It was the most dreary, awful, dimly lit depressing place I have ever been (besides any IHop or Kmart on a weekday morning). The current employees looked like extras from any 60's zombie flick and barely grunted when I walked through the doors. But I'll get to that cast of characters in a bit.
The secretary told me Alex wanted me to sit and wait for him since he was on a business call. I sat in a room adorned with locks, lock posters, keys, key posters, and an inch of dust on everything. When he was finally ready for me, after a half hour wait and a quarter inch dust collecting on my body I ventured into his office. The friendly Iranian lock dude I picked up a few weeks that was literally throwing a job offer at me turned into a totally different person in the interview. I felt like a prisoner of war being interrogated by the enemy. The questions were quick, short and many. I have never been so uncomfortable being asked questions since a friend's father asked me before I was to sleep over their house "Do you wheez?" – I was 9 years old. In congruence with the fact that I cannot possibly take anything seriously, I almost starting giggling nervous like a schoolgirl, or poorly medicated mental patient. But alas, I made it through and after a stern handshake (I know I am using the word "stern" a lot, but this guy personified the word).
But after the interview, and before accepting, I had to pass a drug test and "personality test". Both were going to be held at the same place at 18th and Locust in Center City.
The place where this was to be held was a scary place. It was like a private investigator's office, well it wasn't "like" one, it WAS one. The girl who interviewed me and gave me the tests was very fetching. It made it even harder to tell the truth since I could barely speak English to this girl to begin with! he starts asking me questions, and they are extremely personal. And of course, me, never taking anything serious, try joking with her. I tell her "Before you ask, I am NOT going to tell you when I lost my virginity!" Fully expecting her to chuckle, she stared at me blankly with a look that could melt Antarctica. The rest of the session was uncomfortable, as you could imagine, but I made it through. Now a normal human being, or even someone with a few problems, issues, and conditions may have just stayed away and realized that this was bad news. But foolish, silly, and stupid Marty needed to get the F out of Enterprise so I accepted the job offer.
Chapter One: The Iranian Lock King
On a beautiful August morning back in the year 2000, I answered a call made to my Enterprise Rent-A-Car office from a man with a very thick foreign accent. It was a very stern, cold accent that reminded me of Ivan Drago's wife from Rocky IV. He wanted to be picked up but was not in our area. (Enterprise "law" forbade stealing other branch's business by picking people up in an area not in your branch's zone). Knowing my manager was breaking Enterprise law by renting to people out of our area and knowing it was going to be me stuck picking up this guy – I just went ahead and took the directions.
When I got there and picked him up, he looked just like sounded – foreign and stern. His mouth seemed to permanently frown, and he looked like a miserable human being. Just what I loved about this dreadful job- uncomfortable conversation with someone who I wasn't go to be able to understand. So as we were talking, I came to discover he was from Iran (and was trying to remember if it was Iran or Iraq that hated us). Part of me was afraid that the vehicle I picked him up in was going to burst into a fiery explosion, part of me didn't care if that happened at this miserable point of my Enterprise career. He seemed very interested in knowing about me, and was asking probing questions. I, being the chatty Cathy that I am, was singing like a canary or a Mafia turncoat. His name was Alex and turns out he owns a company over in Philadelphia that is a distributor of locks and door hardware and just fired an incompetent salesman.
For some reason, Alex took a shine to me and was hinting at the possibility of hiring me. I was entertaining this because at the time I would have taken a job as a human ashtray. I had nothing to lose, Enterprise was a lost cause and I had nothing else going. We exchanged numbers and he told me he really wanted to hire me. For once, I felt like I was getting a lucky break and would finally be on the road to success. (Since I was on the Highway to Hell presently) So as soon as I could, I sent my resume and cover letter that outlined how interested I was in the thrilling, fast-paced sexy world of locks and door hardware. After a few days, I finally got a response and a chance to interview. *Right about here I should have seen the stoplights, white flags, and Jerry Springer guests saying "Don't Go there"*
When I walked into the world headquarters of (don't giggle here) Fried Brothers Inc., aka FBI Security I should have just turned around, tucked my tail between my legs, and done my best Carl Lewis impersonation. It was the most dreary, awful, dimly lit depressing place I have ever been (besides any IHop or Kmart on a weekday morning). The current employees looked like extras from any 60's zombie flick and barely grunted when I walked through the doors. But I'll get to that cast of characters in a bit.
The secretary told me Alex wanted me to sit and wait for him since he was on a business call. I sat in a room adorned with locks, lock posters, keys, key posters, and an inch of dust on everything. When he was finally ready for me, after a half hour wait and a quarter inch dust collecting on my body I ventured into his office. The friendly Iranian lock dude I picked up a few weeks that was literally throwing a job offer at me turned into a totally different person in the interview. I felt like a prisoner of war being interrogated by the enemy. The questions were quick, short and many. I have never been so uncomfortable being asked questions since a friend's father asked me before I was to sleep over their house "Do you wheez?" – I was 9 years old. In congruence with the fact that I cannot possibly take anything seriously, I almost starting giggling nervous like a schoolgirl, or poorly medicated mental patient. But alas, I made it through and after a stern handshake (I know I am using the word "stern" a lot, but this guy personified the word).
But after the interview, and before accepting, I had to pass a drug test and "personality test". Both were going to be held at the same place at 18th and Locust in Center City.
The place where this was to be held was a scary place. It was like a private investigator's office, well it wasn't "like" one, it WAS one. The girl who interviewed me and gave me the tests was very fetching. It made it even harder to tell the truth since I could barely speak English to this girl to begin with! he starts asking me questions, and they are extremely personal. And of course, me, never taking anything serious, try joking with her. I tell her "Before you ask, I am NOT going to tell you when I lost my virginity!" Fully expecting her to chuckle, she stared at me blankly with a look that could melt Antarctica. The rest of the session was uncomfortable, as you could imagine, but I made it through. Now a normal human being, or even someone with a few problems, issues, and conditions may have just stayed away and realized that this was bad news. But foolish, silly, and stupid Marty needed to get the F out of Enterprise so I accepted the job offer.
From The Archives: EBAY SCAM!!!
Well, not quite, but a guy I used to work with sells stuff on ebay all the time. I saw a package to be mailed out on his desk and i wrote the guys name and address down. I then pretended I was the guy, and wrote him an angry letter back to his home address. Here is the letter:
Dear Mr. Valentino,
My name is Michael McDonnell and recently I won a book from you in an auction from ebay.com. To refresh your memory, the book in question was "I'm the Boss! – the Collective Works of Tony Danza". I really looked forward to receiving it and reading about hilarious bloopers on the set of Taxi, and also how Tony had to constantly ward off sexual advances from Danny "Jonathan" Pintauro on the set of Who's The Boss. The package came on time, but when I opened it I was shocked, dismayed, and utterly confused.
You see, what I found in the envelope was the remnants of a chicken McNugget and a "book" crudely made with cardboard for covers and the backs of pizza shop menus for pages. After reading a bit, I realized this book was supposed to be your memoirs. The most disturbing part of it all was that five whole pages were written entirely with what appears to be blood. I decided to read on, and although a small portion of the book is written in Vulcan and was horribly undecipherable, I was able to finish. The book chronicles your life from your carefree days as a pig-tailed young boy to your recent years as a bearded ebay scam artist. But after reading the whole thing, I realized that your life (or at least what you want to remember) revolves around four principles that you keep referring to in the text. You have an unexplained extreme hatred for poodles; you wish people would still refer to you by your childhood nickname "Kiki"; you have every episode of Fame on tape and have been petitioning NBC to bring it back for almost twenty years, and finally- you have an almost insatiable craving for mustard almost every minute of the day.
Needless to say, after reading your bizarre life story I was baffled, mystified, and for some reason in the mood for mustard. Most importantly though, I made my own conclusion about your life- you are a crook! I want my Tony Danza book and if I don't get it soon I will make my way up from Ocean View, Delaware to Palmyra, New Jersey and hunt you down. Think I am kidding? Never second guess a man obsessed with Tony Danza. You have been warned!
Yours,
Michael McDonnell
PS. I am holding your memoirs as ransom- pull any funny stuff and I'll spill the beans about your affair with Jon Benet Ramsey!
Dear Mr. Valentino,
My name is Michael McDonnell and recently I won a book from you in an auction from ebay.com. To refresh your memory, the book in question was "I'm the Boss! – the Collective Works of Tony Danza". I really looked forward to receiving it and reading about hilarious bloopers on the set of Taxi, and also how Tony had to constantly ward off sexual advances from Danny "Jonathan" Pintauro on the set of Who's The Boss. The package came on time, but when I opened it I was shocked, dismayed, and utterly confused.
You see, what I found in the envelope was the remnants of a chicken McNugget and a "book" crudely made with cardboard for covers and the backs of pizza shop menus for pages. After reading a bit, I realized this book was supposed to be your memoirs. The most disturbing part of it all was that five whole pages were written entirely with what appears to be blood. I decided to read on, and although a small portion of the book is written in Vulcan and was horribly undecipherable, I was able to finish. The book chronicles your life from your carefree days as a pig-tailed young boy to your recent years as a bearded ebay scam artist. But after reading the whole thing, I realized that your life (or at least what you want to remember) revolves around four principles that you keep referring to in the text. You have an unexplained extreme hatred for poodles; you wish people would still refer to you by your childhood nickname "Kiki"; you have every episode of Fame on tape and have been petitioning NBC to bring it back for almost twenty years, and finally- you have an almost insatiable craving for mustard almost every minute of the day.
Needless to say, after reading your bizarre life story I was baffled, mystified, and for some reason in the mood for mustard. Most importantly though, I made my own conclusion about your life- you are a crook! I want my Tony Danza book and if I don't get it soon I will make my way up from Ocean View, Delaware to Palmyra, New Jersey and hunt you down. Think I am kidding? Never second guess a man obsessed with Tony Danza. You have been warned!
Yours,
Michael McDonnell
PS. I am holding your memoirs as ransom- pull any funny stuff and I'll spill the beans about your affair with Jon Benet Ramsey!
From The Archives: Home Improvement
Home Improvement
My best friend John Sullivan bought a home some time back and spent many hours of blood, sweat, and tears making it nice. He might have been a little upset when he got this phony letter from me!! Read on...
Dear Mr. Sullivan,
Congratulations on your new home! It must be terribly exciting to be a new homeowner and see the fruits of your hard work. Even though we have never met, I am very happy for you.
You may wonder why I am writing you – so please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Carl Phillips and I live in nearby Philadelphia. Sadly, my father recently passed away and going through his belongings was not easy. He had a disturbing amount of pornographic magazines but I would rather not get into that. One thing I did find should be of great interest to you. (beside the magazines) I found a map of the insides of a home addressed 204 Linderman in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. That's right – your address!
Along with the map was a note from my great grandfather Theodore Phillips. In the note, he explains that he robbed Cherry Hill Bank and Trust back in 1905. He got away with the crime but was paranoid so he hid the money in various spots throughout his home – 204 Linderman! The map pinpoints each location. Tragically, however, Theodore was killed in a very bizarre hunting accident. He was shot while hunting in the Pine Barrens (not bizarre at all you may say), but at the time, he was not wearing pants. But John, do you understand what I am telling you? You could be sleeping, eating, and going to the potty amid millions of hidden dollars!
However, before you start taking a crowbar to your floorboards and toilet seats, I want you to realize that the money rightfully belongs to me. It was my great grandfather that violently robbed that bank, not yours. In simpler terms- my great grandfather=my money! But being a man of character, I will agree to pay you back for any damage I do to the house and a year supply of band-aids. (did I mention that I am a sales rep for Johnson & Johnson?)
You will be seeing me shortly-don't worry- I have all the tools necessary for gutting a home. I just don't have the tools necessary for putting a home back together. I guess that's where you come in!
Sincerely,
Carl Phillips
My best friend John Sullivan bought a home some time back and spent many hours of blood, sweat, and tears making it nice. He might have been a little upset when he got this phony letter from me!! Read on...
Dear Mr. Sullivan,
Congratulations on your new home! It must be terribly exciting to be a new homeowner and see the fruits of your hard work. Even though we have never met, I am very happy for you.
You may wonder why I am writing you – so please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Carl Phillips and I live in nearby Philadelphia. Sadly, my father recently passed away and going through his belongings was not easy. He had a disturbing amount of pornographic magazines but I would rather not get into that. One thing I did find should be of great interest to you. (beside the magazines) I found a map of the insides of a home addressed 204 Linderman in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. That's right – your address!
Along with the map was a note from my great grandfather Theodore Phillips. In the note, he explains that he robbed Cherry Hill Bank and Trust back in 1905. He got away with the crime but was paranoid so he hid the money in various spots throughout his home – 204 Linderman! The map pinpoints each location. Tragically, however, Theodore was killed in a very bizarre hunting accident. He was shot while hunting in the Pine Barrens (not bizarre at all you may say), but at the time, he was not wearing pants. But John, do you understand what I am telling you? You could be sleeping, eating, and going to the potty amid millions of hidden dollars!
However, before you start taking a crowbar to your floorboards and toilet seats, I want you to realize that the money rightfully belongs to me. It was my great grandfather that violently robbed that bank, not yours. In simpler terms- my great grandfather=my money! But being a man of character, I will agree to pay you back for any damage I do to the house and a year supply of band-aids. (did I mention that I am a sales rep for Johnson & Johnson?)
You will be seeing me shortly-don't worry- I have all the tools necessary for gutting a home. I just don't have the tools necessary for putting a home back together. I guess that's where you come in!
Sincerely,
Carl Phillips
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