I don't mean to alarm you, but unless you read this straight through and do exactly as you are instructed, you'll probably get run over and killed by an OPP vehicle within a week. You see, this isn't really a newspaper column.
It's a chain letter.
I'm sending this to you because I got a chain letter myself two weeks ago and blew it off, and I'm getting kind of worried. A bunch of my friends also got the letter and disregarded it, and several of them have colds now. (The letters were campus-mailed to us by another friend whom I won't name here, although you might see him soon in the police log under the headline "Man suspended upside-down in toilet stall.")
I realize that most of you don't believe in chain letters. You probably think they're elaborate hoaxes cooked up by the U.S. Postal Service to stimulate stamp sales. I used to feel that way too, until a personal chain letter experience led me to respect their mysterious power.
In third grade a friend gave me a chain letter, replete with the usual threats of death via tiger pit and guarantees that I'd marry a Dallas Cowgirl. (No mean feat for an 8-year old.) My fate, claimed the letter, hinged on my making 10 copies and mailing them to other people. Fool that I was, I threw it out.
Nine years later, I was pole vaulting at a track meet when fate struck. In the most embarrassing and painful five seconds of my life, I vaulted, straddled the crossbar in midair and came down on it with all my weight. As my coach later put it, "Dave, you really got racked on that one."
For those of you who are female and thus have never "gotten racked," imagine going into labor without warning twelve feet in the air in front of a large crowd. Needless to say, I spent the rest of that afternoon in a fetal position, whimpering in soprano and mourning the children I was sure I could no longer have. It was much worse than dying in a tiger pit.
Unrelated incidents, you say? Boy, are you ever dumb. Consider this: the phrases "pole vaulting" and "chain letter" each contain exactly two words. Also, eight (my age when I got the letter) added to 12 (the grade in which I nearly castrated myself) is 20, which is twice the number of copies the letter instructed me to make. (Insert "Twilight Zone" music.)
The conclusion is inescapable: my track catastrophe was directly caused by my failure to comply with a chain letter nine years earlier. I can only be grateful that I wasn't killed that day. ("Hey, watch me throw this javelin 200 feet! Whoops -- look out, Dave!" THUNK.)
After having been through that, I'm feeling really nervous about having thrown out this past letter, which listed a wealth of actual curses people have suffered for breaking "the chain." Among these were misplaced lottery tickets that would have won millions, exploding cars, ruined careers, and the sad tale of a man named Gene Welch, who "lost his wife 51 days after receiving the letter." (Think hard, Gene. When do you last remember having her with you? Maybe you left her on the dresser.)
How do they find out what happens to these people, anyway? Do they send follow-up survey cards, like they do for stereo warranties? ("Dear chain letter recipient: Please take a few minutes to describe below any recent reversals of fortune in your life. Thank you.") Why didn't I get one of these? And just who are "they?" Are the people behind chain letters actually stereo manufacturers? Is that why my CD player skips a lot? Speaking of which, is it OK to clean the lens with my underwear? Not the pair I'm wearing or anything. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Next paragraph, please.)
At any rate, I know it's only a matter of time before something awful happens to me. And if my life is going to be screwed up by a chain letter, then so is everybody else's! (I'm not a very good sport, especially about being doomed by fate.) That's why I'm writing this "chain column," and that's where you come in.
You must make 10 copies of this column in the next three days and mail them to friends, relatives, Bill Clinton's Cabinet appointees, Pat Sajak, etc. More importantly, place the contents of your purse or wallet in a small package and mail them to me. This step is crucial in ensuring good luck.
If you do these things, good fortune will come your way. If you ignore this, however, disaster will strike. Hard to believe? Note the following:
-- A few weeks ago, Bruce Parkhill received this in the mail. He crumpled it in a ball and hit the trash can from 20 feet out. Bobby Knight, on the other hand, made 10 copies and mailed them immediately. The rest, unfortunately, is bad officiating history.
-- Pop star Billy Joel was also a recipient of this column. He disregarded it. Shortly afterwards, his wife, Christie Brinkley, left him for a college newspaper columnist.
-- A struggling young sculptor got a copy of this in the mail years ago. He put it in a drawer, meaning to copy it but never getting around to it. In what could only have been a tragic curse, his next project turned out to be a large red figure whose head looked vaguely like an onion. He then found the letter and sent out copies. Shortly thereafter, a major university decided to display the sculpture.
And those are just a few of the dozens of cases I am completely fabricating. Remember, one of these fates could be yours. Heed these words carefully! Make 10 copies of this column. Mail them within three days. Send me your valuables.
Watch out for OPP trucks.
(This column was sponsored by the U.S. Postal Service.)
