Chain Letter Spoof
I am a very sick boy little boy. My mother is typing this for me, because
I can't. She is crying. (Don't cry, Mommy!) Mommy is always sad, but
she says it's not my fault. I asked her if it was God's fault, but she
didn't answer, and only started crying harder, so I don't ask her that
anymore.
The reason she is so sad is that I'm so sick. I was born without a body.
It doesn't hurt, except when I go to sleep. The doctors gave me an
artificial body. My body is a burlap bag filled with leaves. The doctors
said that was the best they could do on account of us havin' no money or
insurance. I would like to have a body transplant, but we need more
money.
Mommy doesn't work because she said employers don't hire crying people. I
said, "Don't cry, Mommy," and she hugged my burlap body. Mommy always
gives me hugs, even though she's allergic to burlap, and it chafes her
real bad. I hope you will help me.
You can help me if you forward this e-mail. Dr. Van Nostrem from the
clinic said if you foward this e-mail then Bill Gates will team up with
AOL and do a survey with NASA. Then the astronauts will collect prayers
from school children all over America and take them up to space so that
the angels can hear them better. Then they will go to the Pope, and he
will take up a collection in church and send the money to the doctors.
The doctors could help me get better then. Maybe one day I will be able
to play baseball. Or maybe just use my lungs and heart, when the doctors
make them. The doctors said that every time you forward this letter, the
astronauts can take another prayer to the angels.
Please help me. Mommy is so sad, and I want a body. I don't want my
leaves to rot before I turn 10. If you don't forward this e-mail, that's
OK. Mommy says you're a mean heartless shithead who doesn't care about a
poor little boy with only a head. She says that, if you don't stew in the
raw pit of your own guilt-ridden stomach, she hopes you die a long slow
horrible death so you can burn forever in the tar pits of hell. What kind
of goddamned person are you that you can't take five fucking minutes to
forward this to all your friends so that they can feel guilt and shame for
the rest of their day, and then maybe help a poor, bodiless nine-year-old
boy?
Please help me. This really sucks. I try to be happy but it's hard. I
wish I had a puppy. I wish I could hold a puppy. One time I had a puppy
but he ate my leaves.
Thank You.
The boy with just a head. And a burlap sack for a body.
I can't. She is crying. (Don't cry, Mommy!) Mommy is always sad, but
she says it's not my fault. I asked her if it was God's fault, but she
didn't answer, and only started crying harder, so I don't ask her that
anymore.
The reason she is so sad is that I'm so sick. I was born without a body.
It doesn't hurt, except when I go to sleep. The doctors gave me an
artificial body. My body is a burlap bag filled with leaves. The doctors
said that was the best they could do on account of us havin' no money or
insurance. I would like to have a body transplant, but we need more
money.
Mommy doesn't work because she said employers don't hire crying people. I
said, "Don't cry, Mommy," and she hugged my burlap body. Mommy always
gives me hugs, even though she's allergic to burlap, and it chafes her
real bad. I hope you will help me.
You can help me if you forward this e-mail. Dr. Van Nostrem from the
clinic said if you foward this e-mail then Bill Gates will team up with
AOL and do a survey with NASA. Then the astronauts will collect prayers
from school children all over America and take them up to space so that
the angels can hear them better. Then they will go to the Pope, and he
will take up a collection in church and send the money to the doctors.
The doctors could help me get better then. Maybe one day I will be able
to play baseball. Or maybe just use my lungs and heart, when the doctors
make them. The doctors said that every time you forward this letter, the
astronauts can take another prayer to the angels.
Please help me. Mommy is so sad, and I want a body. I don't want my
leaves to rot before I turn 10. If you don't forward this e-mail, that's
OK. Mommy says you're a mean heartless shithead who doesn't care about a
poor little boy with only a head. She says that, if you don't stew in the
raw pit of your own guilt-ridden stomach, she hopes you die a long slow
horrible death so you can burn forever in the tar pits of hell. What kind
of goddamned person are you that you can't take five fucking minutes to
forward this to all your friends so that they can feel guilt and shame for
the rest of their day, and then maybe help a poor, bodiless nine-year-old
boy?
Please help me. This really sucks. I try to be happy but it's hard. I
wish I had a puppy. I wish I could hold a puppy. One time I had a puppy
but he ate my leaves.
Thank You.
The boy with just a head. And a burlap sack for a body.