Etta Bailey Jones

-

She sat there in row 27, seat A looking out the window at the world below. She was wringing her hands and was lost in the moment.

Her mood was blank, just like her stare out the window.

Her eyes never blinked.

I left her alone.

We took off.

--

There was some turbulence and my stomach churned a little. I looked to my left to check on her. Her eyes never blinked.

Ma’am, are you okay? I asked her.

She shook her head slowly, turned to her right and forced a smile.

Clearly, she didn’t want to be bothered. The wrinkles on her face were the patchwork of years of happiness, tears and struggle.

Her eyes, though, were glassed over. Her eyes were tired. Her eyes have a story.

Telling it may be the final thing that pushes her life to the light. Her stories are those most bury deep in their minds. Her stories have all been replaced by the ones she never wants to relive. Her stories have been taken from her.

Her stare drew blanker and her hands held onto each other as if they were her sole possessions in life.

Back to the window.

---

Her dress was once a bright blue and the roses patterned throughout once beamed the most radiant of reds. It was surely her Sunday dress worn many of times for church services, weddings, funerals. She wore that dress when she wanted to feel young again. She wore that dress when she celebrated.

She wore that dress on the plane.

She had a bracelet with a charm.

A New Orleans Saints logo.

She stroked it when she got nervous.

----

The drink cart was coming down the aisle.

Would you like a drink, ma’am, they asked her.

Water, she said.

I took the drink from the aisle and handed it to her with both hands. We touched. She forced a smile.

Are you coming or going? I had to ask her. Conversation was a gamble, I thought.

Another forced smile. A pause.

Both, she said.

Both?

New Orleans is where I lived my life.

-----

She finished her water. She looked at the seat in front of her. She fumbled around with the trey handle and spilt some ice onto the floor. She was embarrassed. She was frustrated.

Let me help you. I unlocked the trey in the middle seat, took her cup and placed it down.

Her hands quickly clinched, rather cinched, together.

Thank you, she said.

First time to fly, ma’am?

Yes.

It is okay. Those things are hard to open. It is okay.

I am 83 years old. I swore to my children that I would never step one foot on these things.

Her voice was soft. Her voice was sweet. Her voice was vulnerable. Her voice was ready to speak.

------

Do you live in Atlanta now?

No, I was in Savannah for a couple of years. I lived with my friend.

Savannah is a beautiful city.

Savannah is a nice place. She smiled.

Are you returning to New Orleans to see family?

Pause. No, she said.

That ended our conversation for the moment. Pause.

-------

I didn’t want to ask her. The pain was spelled out still.

Katrina.

--------

She started to say something but retracted.

It’s okay, ma’am. I understand.

You don’t understand, but thank you.

---------

We landed. The quick jolt of hitting the earth startled her.

Can I ask you a question, ma’am?

Sure.

Where did you live here in New Orleans?

5212 N. Miro Street. Lived there 37 years. Lived right across from the park. I lived there.

I smiled. Are you going there again?

No.

May I?

Pause.

Yes. She cried.

I gave her my business card and wished her well. That was the last I ever saw of Mrs. Etta Bailey Jones.

----------

Nothing was there. Overgrown grass over a cement foundation. No trees. Few sounds. No life.

I drove down the street time and time again, looking for a park.

There was nothing there.

----------

I found a trailer. FEMA, probably.

I knocked.

Pause.

A man, probably mid-50s, answered curiously. He cursed at me. Told me that this was not a fucking tourist stop.

Mrs. Etta Bailey Jones, I said.

Pause. Stare. Silence.

Is she okay, he said. A woman came to the door.

My God. Tell me she is okay.

She is fine.

Who the hell are you?

A friend, of sorts. I told them our story on the plane.

We began to walk down N. Miro Street.

-----------

They finally tore their home down about two years ago, he said, pointing north.

Pause.

Her family died here, man. Her whole family.

The bodies bobbed in the water and sludge like buoys. They were bloated and lifeless, always face down. Their faces were too embarrassed to be seen, he said. They didn’t want to be seen like that.

They tried so hard to live. They just couldn’t get out, man. They couldn’t get out.

They all died, he said.

Everyone?

Her husband, Otis. Her sister, Jacqueline. Jacky’s husband, Edward. A nephew, Edward, Jr. Two of Otis and Etta’s grandbabies. Trey is four. His sister, Alicia, is eight. No family lost more than Etta did that day, man.

He stopped.

I knew why He stopped.

The stare turned more into a face full of tears. He turned and looked south, saying nothing but saying everything.

Etta was the only one that lived. God saved her, man. He saved her.

------------

It was like any other day, really. The short walk to the mailbox was always the same. It was a quick trip, a simple glance inside. Bill, junk mail, and a post card.

The postcard simply read:

“Mrs. Etta Bailey Jones died on Tuesday.”

Pause.

Mrs. Etta Bailey Jones died in New Orleans Monday, August 29, 2006.

They buried her in a bright blue dress with red roses and with the Saints charm bracelet.

The New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl on February 7, 2010. The world celebrated with them. Etta Bailey Jones is probably smiling.

Extra! Extra! Where will you read all about it?

As a teenager, I’d wake up every morning on 2002 Lewis Trail, walk outside to the dark morning and grab my daily present.

The Dallas Morning News and the Grand Prairie Daily News were waiting for me in a plastic bag on my front sidewalk.

I’d eat my cold cereal or slices of toast smothered in peanut butter and devour both papers from start to finish. That was my routine until the day I owned a computer.

I grew up reading the best sports journalism has to offer. Ed Werder, Randy Galloway, Skip Bayless, Tim Colinshaw, Kevin Blackistone, D. Orlando Ledbetter and so on and so forth. Those men told me the stories. The scripted out my childhood memories.

When I was a young writer, I would sit next to Randy Jennings of the Grand Prairie Daily News and watched him cover sporting events. I would stand in his interview circle and listen to ask simple questions to simple high school coaches. I learned a lot from him in those moments.

Nearly 15 years later, I ask those same questions to those same simple high school coaches and simple high school athletes.

There is nothing else that I love more.

But the days of walking to the sidewalk to get the paper are long over. The days of thumbing through the paper are dying. Newspapers are quickly dying off in a day and age of instant information and an eroding economy.

The Rocky Mountain News announced it was shutting down it’s presses today. The paper released a terribly depressing online documentary that told the story of the importance of it’s paper in Denver. The scene has been and will be played out in newsrooms all over the world in the next year or two.

There was one moment in the video that was poignant. A gentleman standing outside in the cold Denver air at a transit station said something very profound.

“An uniformed society breeds social evils,” he said in his west Africa accent.

We, the journalists, may be perceived as bias, agenda-driven liberals. Not so. The newspaper has always been the social cross-examiner.

The newspapers informed us. Good papers and good journalists told the stories and let the reader make up his or her mind. Now, and I’m equally guilty of it, we find our news online. We find our news in blogs. We find our news on our “phones.”

The day after I watched Nolan Ryan, my boyhood idol, toss his 5,000th strikeout from the first row of left field bleachers with my family, I bought a paper. The day after I watched Mr. Ryan toss his seventh no-hitter, I bought a paper. On September 12, 2001 I bought a paper.

I still own those papers. I will own them until the day I am buried and leave this Earth. I don’t read them very often, if ever. I don’t recall their words but I have those moments, my moments, in history.

That is what newspapers are to us. They are our lives journals that we don’t write.

The newsprint stains on my fingers that I acquired after 32 years of reading the paper will never go away.

Musician Ben Folds penned a song, “Fred Jones part 2” in 2001 and the story rings true today more than it ever has.

“Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
He's cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes
Things that remind him: 'Life has been good'
Twenty-five years
He's worked at the paper
A man's here to take him downstairs
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time
There was no party, there were no songs
'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started
No one is left here that knows his first name
And life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passengers change
They don't change anything
You get off; someone else can get on
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time.”

I, even a young writer, became Mr. Jones last year. Life has barreled on and I am still looking for a place where I can tell stories as a career.

Do yourself a favor today or tomorrow or Sunday or whenever and buy a paper.

It would make Mr. Jones smile.

List 1: Greatest sports blow ups

1. Tim Brando on a clueless Auburn fan. Kudos Brando. Kudos.



2. Ryan Leaf, world’s greatest baby.



3. Classic. And boom goes the dynamite.



4. Not sports but she is Miss South Carolina. That accounts for something, doesn’t it?



5. Carl Lewis hates America. Absolutely hates it.

I heart lists

Everyone loves a list.

The top 10 movies of 2008. The top sushi bars in L.A. The 10 worst cities for air pollution. The top 10 lists of all-time lists. We’ve all read them.

We’ve all shook our heads and clinched our fists in disapproval at the computer screen when Pee Wee’s Big Adventure didn’t crack the list of best Saturday morning kids shows turned into motion picture list. I was pissed.

With my ousting at Yahoo! (screw you corporate America), I’ve decided to switch the blog up a little. It was, after all, a daily home to all things intelligent on the Worldwide Web, right? So my last entry was Oct. 30. Sue me.

JY on the Road is now the home of the list. I’m going to try to roll out some good lists over the next couple of weeks. If you have any ideas, I’d love to hear them. Leave me a comment. No, better yet, leave me a list of your list ideas.

Thank you. My pleasure.

"And $1.34 is your change."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."

"Can I get some more Dr. Pepper?
"Sure."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."

"Would you like some help with your tray to your table?"
"That would be great. Thank you."
"My pleasure."

"Please drive around to the first window."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."

"Thank you."
"My pleasure."

That's just a sampling of conversations I've had with people that work at Chick-Fil-A, arguably the nicest collection of well-groomed fast-food employers on the planet.

Notice a trend?

Apparently the company has a policy that whenever a customer says "thank you" the employee is required to say "my pleasure." How nice. Seriously. How nice is that? Recall the last time you went to McDonald's and the 18-year-old high school drop out is standing behind the counter and giving you that look.

Oh, c'mon. You know the look.

The one that says, "Oh my gosh. What do you want? My break is in, like, 17 minutes and 38 seconds. You better make this quick and don't ask me any hard questions." Yeah, that look.

You don't get those at Chick-Fil-A. You get "my pleasures!" Keep your kid meal toys. This is good enough for me.

Sure, the sandwich is simple. Warm, sometimes scalding hot, chicken in between two pieces of white bread bun. Pure, simple goodness. Throw in some waffle fries and a brownie and you are this close to seeing the light come from the parted clouds and a voice beckoning you to come home.

Now topping it off, you get a "My pleasure" after every "thank you."

GLORIOUS! Cue the angel's singing.

Don't believe me? Try it. Go to your nearest Chick-Fil-A and try it. Heck, get greedy. Get stupid with it.

Try different variations of "Thank you." See what you get. See if you can get the well-groomed teenager to crack under pressure.

What happens if you say:

Thank you, infinity.
Thank you so much.
I just want to say thanks.
Gracias.
Thanks a million!
(In a very depressed voice) Thanks, I guess.
Oh this is my order? Oh, thanks.
Hooray! Thanks!

Try it. You'll probably email me and say, "Justin, you are right. That is awesome! Thank you."

My pleasure.

Old school

It's 10 p.m., do you know where I am?

I've always wondered what prune juice tastes like. I've never tried it. Never really had a desire to. But now I do.

Why?

I go to bed at 10 o'clock these days. I just can't keep my eyes open anymore. The byproduct of going to bed early is drinking prune juice, listening to some Sinatra, talking about the good 'ole days and driving slower.

I'm two for three folks.

This getting old business is foreign. Nice, at times, but very foreign. I love midnight oil. No, not the band. Well, actually, yes the band. Great band. Very underrated. But I do love midnight oil. I love to burn it. Correction. I loved to burn it. Now the match just burns down to my fingers because I have fallen asleep in the process of trying to light it.

My on the road lifestyle is catching up to me. I'm fighting it but it is winning. I can't stay up late anymore. I can't make it to the 11 o'clock news, let alone my main man Conan O'Brien.

"In the year 2000, 31-year-old men will fall asleep at 10 p.m. every night."

That's Armageddon, people. The gas shortage, the stock market crash, the horrendous options for president of this great nation? Puh-leez. That's nothing. This falling asleep early is the beginning of the end.

I'm off to Louisiana and Dallas for back-to-back weekends for week. How will I survive going to bed at nine p.m.? Oh, the humanity!

Dr. Pepper used to work. But caffeine doesn't have an effect anymore. That is a problem, right? I must be immune to it.

Does prune juice keep you awake? Just wondering.

More Twang, Twang

I loved my Twang, Twang mix so much, I had to dig a little deeper into the iTunes to create some more Twang, Twang magic. Enjoy.

Twang, twang

Yeah, yeah. I don't update this thing very often. I know. Get over it.

Here is what I've been listening to a lot on the handy (and now very dated) iPod.

WNBA Live 2008

Vegas, baby

Five Rivals.com shirts? Check.

More shorts than I know what to do with? Packed away.

Laptop? Got it.

Camera? Ready to roll.

My secret poker money stash? Check and double check. (Just don't tell my wife.)

Okay, I'm ready for Vegas.

My morning flight to Sin City leaves 8:30 a.m. from Atlanta on Monday morning. Seat 15C, you and I are going to be great friends for nearly five hours over America.

I love flights to Vegas. There isn't a bad mood on the plane. Just pure greedy thoughts of striking it rich in the casinos with no clocks and windows. The big bird is completely full and probably overbooked knowing Delta.

I'll be in one of my favorite cities in the world this week for work.

Here's my iMix for the trip. As you can imagine, I should have great report back from my trip. Let$ hope it i$ filled with lot$ of thing$ that have to do with ca$h, hoop$ and $tories from the land of heat and poker chips.

That guy

I was standing in line at the cleaners the other day and I was listening into Johnny McCocky in front of me on his iPhone. Johnny sure was into Johnny. I wasn’t. He was there to pick up his and I quote:

“Um, yeah, wait just a sec.”

“Yeah, Brian. Hold on. I gotta pick up my Polo, extra starched, shirts. I’m going to Boston with Brittany.”

“Um, yeah, I need to pick up my Polos, extra starched. I’m going to Boston with my girlfriend this weekend for the Fourth.”

The Chinese guy behind the counter didn’t have to say much. I knew what he was thinking no matter what language we both spoke.

Complete d-bag.

The Todd, that’s the name I gave him, got his extra starched shirts, paid, talked on his iPhone with Brian, and jumped into his Hyundai and drove off.

Yeah, a Hyundai. I bet The Todd and Brittney are flying on a red-eye that he bought on priceline.com for $79.

But his shirts look really good. And starched.

I heart New York

"Dammit, I forgot my Purell."

That was my initial thought in the taxi line at LaGuardia Airport last Thursday. I made a colossal mistake. How in the world can you go to New York City without any friggin' Purell?

Costly mistake on my part. I had to bite the bullet and take on the world without

After riding on nearly every train in the under belly in America's most recognizable city, touching hand rails, pushing my way through turnstiles, opening doors to cab after cab, shaking hands with basketball players, coaches, parents and even a ref for three days straight, I'm almost tempted to drive myself to a pressure washer or straight to the Center for Disease Control in downtown Atlanta.

It's Friday now. I've been home for almost a week. I'm still alive. I survived.

Other than fighting off diseases like S.A.R.S. and the West Nile virus, my trip to New York City was outstanding. Just outstanding.

GREAT FOOD

My friend and Brooklyn resident Patrick took me on a whirlwind tour of The City. The first stop was in the Greenwich Village. Why not start with Joe's Pizza. Apparently the pie shop is one of the best in the Big Apple. For two bucks a slice (or something like that), I was sold. The pizza was perfect.

Later that evening we went to a nice Italian restaurant called Bocca in Manhattan. Small but super nice. My pasta was mixed up inside a giant cheese wheel. Very creative. Very tasty. The Nutella tort for desert was money, too.

Back in the day, hamburgers were a major staple on my dietary plan. However, you just can't find a burger like a Whataburger in Georgia. It's all Chick-Fil-A. If I lived in New York, Pop Burger would be my joint.

Do I need to explain more? You get two pop burgers per box and they are the size of a Whitecastle (sorry if you just threw up in your mouth at the thought of a Whitecastle) but the Pop Burgers taste like they just came off of your grill in the backyard. They were so money and they didn't even know it.

Perhaps the highlight of any trip to New York for true authentic food addict is spending time on the famous Arthur Avenue in Little Italy in The Bronx.

Since I was just a block or two away at Fordham University, making the quick trip to Arthur Ave. was an easy decision. I slide over there with a good friend of mine Steve DeMeo, a former assistant coach at Providence College. Great guy and it helped he knew the area. We found Tino's Deli.

Big time.

Just trust me, go to Arthur Avenue if you go to New York it is worth the trip.

NOT SO GREAT BASKETBALL

I spent three days in the Bronx. There is probably a joke that should follow that line. I just can't muster one up. (Maybe an ameba got into my bloodstream and found my brain after all.)

I spent three days in the Bronx inside of a gym without air conditioning. That’s the joke. Sitting in a gym for a combined 22 hours over three days without air conditioning is worse than being in a prison camp.

GREAT PEOPLE

There is an unfair knock against New Yorkers. The pigeon hole that they are cast in is that they aren't very nice, quite rude, wear jump suits and gold chains.

People, that's New Jersey.

I met Jesus. And he saved me. Right there on Arthur Ave. in the Bronx. I was granted my ticket to the heavens. This Jesus was also a crackhead and probably homeless and most definitely out of place in Little Italy. But at least my seat in heaven is saved. Thanks Jesus.

Everyone I met in New York was gracious and quite hospitable. My good friend Patrick showed me the city like a seasoned veteran. The Kansas City native has only lived in the city for a year and a half and dude had the subway system on lockdown. If you can experience New York with a local, that's the only way to go. What an experience it was.

I could go on and on about New York. It was a blast. If you can go, go.

Just don't forget your Purell.

NBA: Celtics win, Pierce wins an Oscar

Okay, let me start by saying I want the Celtics to win.

I'm happy Boston won. Great game.

But seriously Paul Pierce? Did you get hit by a sniper? What's up with the crashing to the floor, being carried out by your teammates and the grimace on your face like you just passed a kidney stone? Really?

I thought he was great with the back-to-back three-pointers. Clutch. Money. Big players make big plays. Cliche, cliche, cliche.

Pierce was big but was this necessary:



Dude, you twisted your knee. You came back 10 minutes later like you were Willis Reed.

Great game, great win, great acting. I love this game.

L.A. homie

It was 3:30 a.m. and I was standing outside of a 15-passenger van on the streets of Crenshaw in Los Angeles.

That's so gangster, isn't it?

That, in a nutshell, was my weekend in the City of Bloods and Crips, er, Angels. And I was stranded on the streets of the hood. What a weekend.

Rewind with me for a minute…

Last Friday night, I went to a trendy little area in Westwood, just outside of UCLA's campus, and went to Jerry's Deli for a late night breakfast with a dozen or so friends and colleagues that were in town for the Pangos All-American camp that I was covering for Rivals.com and Yahoo! Sports.

I was also working on 23 straight hours of being awake.

Jerry's Deli was a neat little spot and we were taken to the back table in the café, passing what was some sort of celebrity, some girl named Kardashian. I guess that's some sort of big deal or something. She asked if I was single. I proudly told her that I wasn't. Sucks for her.

At any rate, it was off to my hotel, you know the posh Vagabond Inn (pictured below) on the other side of town. After taking our exit to get to the hostel, er, hotel, I heard the engine make a noise that you just don't want to hear.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

We ran out of gas at 3:30 in the morning. In L.A. In Crenshaw.

I was experiencing my own Blackhawk Down experience. It was me, seven others and our van minus the gas on the rough and tough streets of L.A. We were stranded with no help in sight.

Did I mention the community of homeless people that we parked right in front of? Did I mention that they weren't happy about our arrival?

Shortly after we coasted to the side of the road and in front of the homeless community, we saw our savior of night. A police squad car was driving up the street rather quickly and we jumped out and tried to flag him down.

Dude drove past us like Jeff Gordon. He had no interest in our stranded situation. The officer flew by without even blinking an eye. Our cries for help went unanswered.

The call to AAA ended like this: "Sorry, sir, we don't respond to the area you are in at this hour."

The night couldn't have been any worse at this stage of the tragedy. At one point, I decided to venture out on my own into the cool night air with two other gas shortage survivors.

We got two and a half blocks before realizing that we had no idea as to where we were. Things weren't going well.

After more calls for help and more passers by wanting no part of our crazed crew of renegades, help finally arrived and we were able to make it to our posh hotel.

I was up for 27 straight hours. I survived my experience of being out on the streets of L.A. I survived a Kardashian.




Los Angeles was a fun trip, outside of my Friday night of course. The basketball was okay. The company I had with me was great. My good friend, Rob, and I found the world's best taco stand on Figueroa Street, just a stone's throw away from USC's gorgeous Galen Center.


Chanos was the best part of the time in SoCal. The $1.50 chicken taco was a lifesaver. Pure authentic Mexican food on the cheap and it was beyond tasty. Pure spice too. I think I had six of them during my time in L.A.

Every bite was full of flavor and buying it as a walk-up customer on the corner of one of the busiest corners in South Central was a highlight of my spring. Washing the spice down with a milkshake from Fatburger, which was right next door, was so Cali.

I'm about to say something that is probably sacrilegious but here goes: Fatburger is so much better than In and Out burger. So much better. The burgers were better. The fries were better. The milkshakes were better. And yes, I feel really fat because of it.

In a nutshell, that was my L.A. experience. Gang violence, good food, okay basketball, great weather and great friends.

You couldn't have asked for anything better.

Going back to Cali

As my good friend James Todd Smith III says, "I'm going back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali." No, really, I am. I'm going back to Cali, the state of my birth. That's where the dream began.

The road show is sending me to LAX for a weekend of wild basketball at the University of Southern California. Should be fun. I think. My lodging is being taken care of and I'm staying at a lovely establishment called the Vagabond Inn. That is the real name. I promise.

When time allows and when I'm not staring at the chalk line of the body on my floor, I am hoping to catch up on some music. I slapped together some music for the five-hour flight and for my stay in the Golden State.

Raleigh, my memory lane

There is something about going to Raleigh, N.C. that makes me think of my childhood.

Living in Texas, you learn one thing particularly quick about sports and that it is football that rules the reign. It is the only sport that needs to be played by the human race. That's what they'd have you believe at least.

Not at the Davis household. And that's why I have such a strong fondness of Raleigh.

One of my best friends, Shawn Davis, was born there. His family has roots in the state and his father, Chuck, was the biggest NC State basketball fan that I knew. He was the only fan I knew of the program, growing up in Dallas, Texas.

The Davis family lived down the street from us on Steppington, a perfect slice of American suburbia. Every Saturday, I'd go with Shawn and his father to the neighbor blacktop. Shawn and I would generally be regulated to last pick amongst the 30, 40 and 50-year weekend warriors. We were so much better than that though.

I don't remember the games. I don't remember the guys we played with. I don't remember how good they were. I don't remember how long we played. I don't remember the particulars. Those things don't matter to me.

Chuck didn't teach me the game. In fact, he was quite intimidating. His North Carolina accent was as distinctive as the sweet vinegar-based barbecue you can find through the Carolinas. Hearing his accent usually came through in his barks to us about how to play the game correctly.

Chuck grew up with Jim Valvano and the NC State Wolfpack. The National Championship Wolfpack of 1983 to be exact.

But what he taught me was the passion that comes with it. Chuck's passion for all things NC State infused my passion and desire to learn more about the ACC. To learn more about the Wolf Pack, North Carolina, Duke and every other team in the conference.

Our games on the neighborhood weren't great. They were excepted to be great. They were fun as hell though. Passionate games, just like the way Jimmy V wanted the games to be played – with passion.

Chuck died one surprising day in 1994. It was one of the saddest days of my life. My best friend lost his father before he could graduate high school.

It doesn't surprise me know that I'm so passionate about the beautiful game. A lot of it can be traced to my days as a young middle school kid in the Lone Star State with a Wolfpack fan on a neighborhood blacktop.

Thanks for the passion Chuck. I'll enjoy Raleigh for you this weekend. Being in Reynolds Coliseum reminds me of your sweet family. It always will.

Off to Carolina this weekend

I'm off to the lovely North Carolina Triangle this weekend for another basketball tournament. I tried to compile a nice song list that have some sort of North Carolina twist to them. Enjoy.

My American idols

In my shrinking world of media, I have had few mentors and examples. Here are two of the best.

Ron Burgandy and Tom "Damn" Brokaw. Watch out for the ninjas.

Making my money work longer and stronger

I get a lot of emails. Probably 500 a day.

No, I'm not important. Not at all. I'm quite dull, unattractive and apparently I'm about to be absolutely loaded and my penis stopped working.

Judging by all of the emails I get a day from Mustapha Fukameli of Sudan, I am heir to a large sum of money from my African cousin that just died or will die or was killed in a terrible hippo accident. I can't remember how exactly I will get my money. I usually delete the email two sentences in. Perhaps I should pay more attention. I could use some more cheese in my pocket.

And my penis? Well, that is a sensitive subject. Please pray for me. I'm getting bombarded with all of these medicine emails to help me with my problem. Apparently the senders don't realize that awaiting baby number three.

I think my junk works fine, thank you.

My good friend "Harley" sent me this email about this magic cure-all pill. I think we are good friends because he seems so confident about talking about such a sensitive topic. So, thanks Harley. Glad we caught up.

If you receive an email from me, I promise to not talk about either topic with you. I guess you aren't as good of a friend as Mustapha and Harley are to me.