A POST!! A REAL LIVE POST!!!!!! GO ME!!!!

AHEM- POSTING, ADINA!!!!!! just wanted to point the fact out...

okay, you said to post about anything, and being the most outstandingly-perfectly-amazingly awesome best friend that i am, i'm following your orders...
that just leaves me the conundrum of figuring out what to write about... hmmm... already wrote about stripes... and the RITSS world doesn't want to hear any more about FCM's or evil bunnies... or squirrel spies... how 'bout weird phone conversations? (fictitious, of course...)

Adina will probably kill me for posting this, but hey- she wanted a post, so... The story goes like this: one motzie shabbos, a certain person sent another certain someone a certain something via e-mail... not specific enough? well... okay- person A (HA! it actually fits!! uh oh... i mean- NO HINTS!!!!!! RIGHT!!! the letter "A" has nothing to do with indicated "person A". and if you believe that...) anyway, person A sent person B an amazing story that the former person wrote... and person B decided it should be published- so she... well, here's the story...

A girl with long curly hair up in a ponytail sitting at a computer. At first glance, she seems to be frozen in horror- then we see a close-up, and realize that the emotion playing across her face is not horror, but shock. Utter shock. "How can she write so awesomely?!?!" she says to herself. "She just sat down and wrote that piece of literary genius?! Just sat down and wrote it? Off the top of her head?!?!" The aforementioned girl sits back in her folding chair (with a brown cushion, in case you were wondering), and picks up a portable phone that is sitting on the table next to her. Phone in hand, she riffles through her well-worn copy of "The Yellowpages", and stops at the category entitled "Publishing". There, still with the look of shock on her face, the girl dials the first number on the page. "Hello" she says as the phone stops ringing. A mechanic- sounding voice recording emanates from the device in her hand (which is on speaker). It says "Hello, you have reached Allstate Publishing Ltd.. We are pleased to have you call, but unfortunately, we are too low on funds to actually pay people to answer the phone. That is why we implore you to sign our petition to pass a bill that will reinstate slavery into our culture. Now we know that there are some people out there that have moral qualms with the enslavement of other human beings, but we at Allstate realize that if we don't enslave others to do our work for us, than we will actually have to work ourselves"- and that is when she slams down the phone. "Yup. I'm one of those 'people out there with moral qualms', that's me- a person who supports the heinous notion of 'working ourselves'. I guess I should probably try a different company". The girl looks down at the heavy book perched on her lap, and sees another name. She holds down the page that seems to have an unquenchable desire to turn, and dials the number written in bold. On the third ring, the phone is picked up, this time by an actual real live person!!!! "Hello, and welcome to "Crooks for Books". If you wanna join our motorcycle club, call Vinnie. He'll arrange for his people to meet your people in a place, at a time... yeah- I've probably told you too much already. What's you're name kid?"- And that's when she reenacts her previous response- she hangs up. Never one to be discouraged, (or maybe just plain stubborn), the girl tries one last time. She closes her eyes, and points randomly to a part of the pages. Excitedly, she opens her eyes, eager to see who to call next. But, to her disappointment, her finger has landed on a blank spot on the page. She sneaks a peak over her shoulder, and stealthily moves her finger over a quarter of a centimeter, looks down, and dials the final number. She remains in that position- phone to ear- for a whole thirty-seven seconds, and then a voice comes through the line. 'Oh great', she thinks. 'Another recording', but after a few seconds of spacing out, she realizes that that isn't the case. The speaker from the other end is merely a robotic, and monotonous-sounding old man. She sighs, and is about to hang up, when she hears three magical letters. "...F.C.M." The man drones. "What was that?" she asks. "I said 'the name of our company is Futile Craziness Management, otherwise known as F.C.M.'" She laughs and says "This sounds like the perfect place- do you publish?" "Well, yes. We publish; magazines, brochures, booklets, newsletters-" "But do you publish books? Like, actual novels?" The girl asks impatiently. A pause, and then: "And as I was about to say, we also publish books. Like, actual novels". From the tone of his voice, she can tell he's probably glaring at a ballpoint pen (most likely blue) that he's been mutilating throughout their entire frustrating conversation, but, seeing as he just confirmed her hopes, she decides to let him get away with only a little sarcasm. "So, you've like, actually published these, like novels before? 'Cause, I'm totally serious about this thing, and I want to make sure this is, like definitely the place I'm looking for. Right?" She says, using her most preppy-sounding voice. "Yes we've published before (She can practically hear him grinding his teeth together). That's why we're called a publishing company." She decides he sounds more demonic than robotic, but decides not to press the issue. "Oh, that's why you're called a publishing company? Thanks for clearing that up for me! I never would have guessed! So where can I send the material I want published?"
He stammers incoherently, before muttering "Just e-mail it to FCMpublishing@publishersunited.com" "Will do!" she says cheerily, and hangs up, leaving him completely befuzzled. She wonders if he will call the nice guys with needles, but realizes that one call to the asylum would put him in more danger than he would want...

and that, people, is the fictionalized, randomly-written, and headache-inducing account of... um... the reaction to good writing? does that work?

Disclaimer: Any head pain or irritableness (new word!!) caused by this message is entirely out of the control of the writer (well, not really- it just looks better to write this than saying "HEY PEOPLE!!!! IT'S OUR FAULT!!! If ya know what I mean...). Please forward any complaints to wedontcare@haveaheadache.org. We thank you for your cooperation...