Before Artificial Intelligence takes over this column (mainly because it works cheaper) I am reprinting letters received.
Those that begin “Dear Stupid” and suggest what I can do with myself I will avoid — despite big-time gratitude for their novel suggestions.
Deep thinker Eugene printed two separate notes May 13 and 15, on lined composition paper torn from a notebook.
Wrote his unsharpened pencil: “Great you showed up Chris Christie. Thank you.”
New Jersey’s Marion: “Thanks for sharing but I don’t always agree with you.”
Norman’s typed 8-by-10 pages on the Declaration of Independence informed me: “New York’s final version was signed July 9th, days later because they awaited Great Britain’s reconciliation.”
May Normie learn everything in England stops for tea.
Plea bargaining
White Plains’ “Linda” ends with — “Kiss Mike Goodwin for me.”
So lotsa luck, Mike.
A belated Easter note: “Read you. Keep up the good work. I’m from Jersey. I like Trump!”
The Designer Greetings card bore the logo: “Printed in China.”
Central Park Bunny’s neatly typed letter said she’s sending me puns.
She forgot to stick any in the envelope.
Manhattan postcard handwritten in ink invited me to a play reading.
The come-on to get me excited was her P.S. which read: “Refreshments from Zabar’s.”
A two-pager — long hidden because of requested confidentiality — tells of her now deceased relative who made “lots of money.”
Famous for “photographing famous actresses,” he was a “slime . . . sexual pervert” and for me to beware of him.
Listen, I’m also a big read in prisons.
Like one in Cumberland, Md. Figures it beats words usually written on their toilet walls like “For a good time, call Kitty.”
This writer, locked up for something he didn’t do — such as wiping his fingerprints off the safe — is out now but hasn’t written since.
Must be he found Kitty.
Another, a Collins, NY, correctional facility inmate — also behind bars wrongfully, because he not only couldn’t live within his income but couldn’t even live within his credit cards, praised me with “God bless you much as He can because you minister meaningful stuff.”
Some stargazers
On Raquel Welch, who did p.r. in Philly: “Guys around whispered: ‘My wife’s prettier’ . . . ‘My date’s beautiful compared to her.’ People want stars looking good and not in a homemade gown looking like a poor soul or brown mouse.”
Joe on Perry Street: “Following Prince Philip’s death I sent a sympathy card to Queen Elizabeth — and got back a thank you acknowledgment from the queen.
Your stuff on Meghan Markle’s perfect!”
Jersey’s Lois loves my “writings” and asks, “Did Kamala’s affairs get her where she is?”
(Please. Even Kamala doesn’t know where she is.)
A Piscataway psychic predicts Harris in the White House.
Also: “Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions plus 7 years of diminished sunlight.”
OK.
Better darkness than Kamala.
A New Rochelle man’s six-pager knocks all religions, says “politicians are corrupt, we need new people so let’s use immigrants until they wake up.”
Big ink stink
One long-long letter urinates strongly on AOC.
No word about me.
No hint if the writer reads what I say or not.
Not one word relative to me, about me, or dealing with me.
Clearly, my fan mail’s IQ runs the gamut from A to B.
And it’s only because of the New York Post, kids, only because of the New York Post.
This story originally appeared on NYPost
