Dear Yahoo Serious,
Hi, it's Randy Quaid! As I write to you, I am rolled up in an Oriental rug, praying that the Star Whackers do not hear the furtive scratchings of my pen. My only hope is that the underpaid staff of Pottery Barn takes sympathy on me should they find the crude lean-to I've built in their clearance section. Of course, these are things you certainly don't need to worry about... How long have you managed to avoid falling into the Star Whackers' clutches? Please, tell me this: is Paul Hogan with you? If so, please protect him. He is one of your national treasures and America is on pins and needles for a Croc Dundee reboot. I have written a spec script called "Dundee Goes Katrina" which features Australia's popular folk hero battling crocs during one of America's most exciting disasters. And no, it is not for sale.
Yahoo, things have gotten "serious." The Star Whackers have begun to assimilate amongst us, disguising themselves as police officers who somehow recognize me -- even with the temporary tattoos and Halloween monster makeup kit I have used to conceal my identity. This is why I need your help. Attached to this note you will find a baggie of Alpha-Bits -- when arranged in the proper order, they will spell out the address where you will send the deeds to any boats that you own. If any of the bits are mangled during shipping, or if you are no good with puzzles, please e-mail me at [email protected] and I'll help you or maybe we can just have a chat. I really need a friend right now.
Dear Problem Child,
Hi, it's Randy Quaid! It is dark. Very dark. Since returning to Anti-Whacker HQ after spending several months on the road gathering supplies, I fear that these insidious forces now control our electronic devices. I knew something was up when I passed the mailbox and noticed it was overflowing with dangerous-looking letters -- no doubt a ruse by the Whackers, concocted to distract me from my mission. No amount of flicking would make a light switch obey my will, and my Panini maker? Forget it. I only hope that the messages I scrawled in code and soap on your east-facing studio apartment window have gotten through to you. By the way -- that autographed picture of John Ritter that you keep over your pile of soiled Chick-fil-A work shirts? Classy. He was a gentleman, and we in the entertainment community miss him dearly.
Problem Child, it has taken me years to track you down... At first, I thought you had fallen prey to the Whackers. But to this day you continue to be the red-headed answer to Macaulay Culkin, so I am glad. But this is no time to relax, like Michael Richards did when he failed to realize a seven-year-old boy could truly be "bad to the bone." Listen, Problem Child. Attached to this note you will find a dog. Follow it. If I ended up killing the dog with Benedryl, just come to the First National Bank downtown. I will be waiting there. I need someone to co-sign on a loan for a jet ski.
Our island paradise, Problem Child. Just you, me, Micro Machines Guy, Yahoo Serious, and J-Silvs. Safe from the Whackers forever. Also, please bring me a Panini. I can't make them anymore.
One roommate's art-fueled movement goes terribly wrong.
Emma Stone was the most paranoid person I had ever met. In private she wore a full suit of medieval armor at all times, visor down.
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