Re-educationcampday, Jesterary 24, 40 A.B.

     Not much time for the journal now.  In fact, I only have 12 minutes that I'm allowed to spend with it tonight, and then only because I agreed to spend much of the day attending Card Players Anonymous counseling sessions.
     Those sessions have impressed on me the need to apologize completely and honestly to everyone I may have wronged lately.  Turns out that that includes quite a lot of people.  
     Guess I better get started.

     Dear Jester:  I'm really sorry I pooh-poohed your angst yesterday when you were venting about "Stuart Little."  In an attempt to make it up to you, I spent some time online at the Internet Movie Database site researching a few things I think you'll be glad to know.  First of all, there have been 159  movies and TV shows made which have "mouse" in their title - but 375 that have "cat."  Feel better?  Hope so.  I know from experience that if you aren't happy, ain't nobody happy.  Which of course is as it should be.

     Dear Hans:  I know I haven't been giving you all the attention lately that every real person owes their best imaginary friend.  I'll try to do better in the future.  And I'll try to give you less of the sort of inappropriate attention I gave you this afternoon.  When I discovered that only 62 movies and TV shows had "Hans" as part of their title, I couldn't resist calling you over and rubbing it in.  It just seemed funny that Hollywood has far more film and videotape on silly cats and mice than to my favorite over-educated European bohemian - I don't know why.  And I don't know what motivated me to point out that 111 movies and TV shows have been made that have "Dan" in their title.  It was wrong and it won't happen again.  And not that I expect you to believe me - or even know what I'm talking about - but I've always personally preferred "Hans Christian Anderson" to "Dan August."  And NOT just because the former starred Danny Kaye.

     Dear Sylvia:  Sweetie, I'm really truly sorry that Hollywood has seen fit to produce only 18 movies and TV shows with your name as part of the title.  I'm even sorrier that I went on to point out that Hollywood has actually produced 19 movies and TV shows with my wife's name of Amy as part of their title.  Despite what you must have thought as I chortled uncontrollably and spun you around in your wheelchair in order to force your nose up against the computer screen on which these search results were displayed, it was NOT my intention to make you feel anything other than the very special and loved imaginary friend that you are.  It'll never, EVER happen again, especially if you keep your half of the bargain and not tell my wife that cats, mice, me, and even that loser Hans seem to be far more popular among Hollywood types than she is.   

     Dear Amy:  I'm sorry I cried all through dinner tonight and then proved too weak from sobbing to help you with the dishes.  It's just that I've never had a day before like this.  Not only have I been through a lot of stress because of numerous Card Players Anonymous counseling sessions involving cattle prods and other modern therapeutic devices, I also got a call informing me that a friend of mine had to be identified using dental records.  No, he wasn't dead - he just forgot to have his driver's license with him when he tried to write a check at Wal-Mart - but you know how much I hate the thought of anyone having to have a dentist poke around in his or her mouth.  I promise to make it up to you tomorrow during dinner by consistently chewing my food with my own mouth completely closed.  I've already had a few signs printed up as place mats to remind me.  Please, darling - no applause.  You'll only embarrass me.

     Dear David:  I'm sorry about what happened yesterday when I ran into you at the movies and you told me that I looked just like the poster of Tigger on display there, and your wife said you better shut-up, and I didn't immediately disagree with her as I have every other time she's said anything in my presence.  I'm also sorry that I didn't jam an elbow into Amy's side to remove the frown she assaulted you with as you defended your opinion that I resembled Tigger by pointing out the same goofy grin, the same odd head shape, the same beady eyes, and the same faded coloration probably resulting from inferior materials and workmanship.  I promise if I ever find out who scratched up your loafers when you left them on your theater seat and went to the rest room, I'll let you know.  Ditto for those odd wheelchair tread marks on that necktie you left behind. 

     Dear Steve Forbes:  I'm sorry that I laughed loud enough to be heard in Iowa today when I read in Newsweek that you have 50 pet chickens.  You just don't seem the chicken-loving type, you know?  But then I suppose 50 ferrets WOULD be a handful even for a man who inherited millions from his dad.  If my laugh cost you a single vote in the caucuses out there today just let me know and I'll reimburse you for whatever it was that you paid for it.

     Dear AOL and "Ask Jeeves" Web Searchers:  If typing in "Ideal Body Weight" led you to this journal, I'm sorry.  As far as I know, I have never written about body weight, ideal or otherwise.  Neither have I included "Ideal Body Weight" in the meta-tags for this site in a shameless effort to boost my hits.  Just click on "View" at the top of your browser and then on "Page Source" and you'll see that the very few inappropriate tags I've included to boost my hits are far, far more obscene than that.  As long as you're here, though, let me just say that whatever weight you happen to be is ideal in my view.  I mean, your weight is the result of a long string of physical causes going clear back to the Big Bang and for you to weigh anything other than what you do right now would be a violation of the laws of cause and effect, and who the hell needs that?  Such a violation might lead to all sorts of weird stuff, like matter/anti-matter explosions, chickens falling from Air Force One, even slabs of muscle and fat that ought to be part of you clogging the highways....  I'm sorry - really, really sorry - but I'm afraid I have to stop now before I trigger a panic attack or an insatiable urge to catch McNuggets on my tongue.

     As luck would have it, my 12 minutes are just about up now, anyway.  Time to get back to apologizing to a certain someone in person.  Hope it's enough for now to end this with a blanket apology to everyone else who might feel that I've ever wronged them in any way.  In fact, since my consciousness has been raised so much today and I feel just super besides, let me also issue a blanket apology now to everyone whom I plan on wronging in the future.  You know who you are.  Sorry.  If you can find a more contrite online journaller, feel free to go read their page instead.  I'll understand.
     Or at least be especially sorry if I don't.

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(©Now by Dan Birtcher just to prevent others from profiting from all the pain he's caused)


Special Note To Jera:  Just thought you'd like to know that I got my medical test results back today.  Turns out your fears were groundless.  My writing isn't scatological at all.  It's positively Rabelaisian!  If that doesn't make you feel as relieved as it does me, maybe you need to go try to relieve yourself.  (Sorry - couldn't resist, having just started the muscle exercises the doctor told me might help increase my self-control.)