FFWD Weekly
Copyright © 2000. All Rights Reserved

Mr. Smutty by James Martin As ludicrous as this may sound, I seem to have lost my shoes. One minute they were there (not on my feet, exactly, but certainly in close proximity) and the next, gone. (Fowl play is not suspected, altho there’s some leftover KFC in the fridge that looks shifty.) So what I’m trying to say here, benevolent reader, is as follows: I need new shoes. To put a finer point on today’s proceedings, what ah’m really trying to say is this: send money, but pronto. Ha ha ha, I am just kidding. Imagine the planet-sized cojones (Neptune, at the least) req’d to approach perfect strangers, cap in hand, and axe for financial ass’st’nce. (Did I just write "ass’st’nce"? I meant "ass’st.") On second thought: no, I’m not. Seriously, I need some dough-rei-mi and ASAP, if you catch the gist of my drift. Are you pickin’ up whut I’m layin’ down? And if so, are you studying it carefully for clues & insight? (Just make sure to wash those paws afterwards.) If the answer is yes, then skip to the next paragraph, which contains important information re: sending yr money my way. If you still haven’t clued in, I’ll spell it out. I cannot hold down a job for all the T-shirts in Chinatown. Yet (and herein lies the rub) I like money v. muchly. My problem should now seem evident to even the dimmest of simps. (Like Peter Nom-de-Ploom of Poughkeepsie, a devoted reader since 1998 and dumb as a sack of ’taters.) I’m not sure on the legal fine-print (and the last thing I need is Mr. Taxman’s onion breath steaming up my neck), so let’s kick up a clever smokescreen. If, hypotenusely-speaking, you were to launch an e-mail to heybub@mrsmutty.com (and the subject line read, say, "Money for you, sir!"), you might (again, speaking purely hypoglycemically) in turn receive an e-mail containing a Top Secret Address. Then, much in the way you might reward a street performer’s particularly haunting rendition of "Music Box Dancer" by lobbing a fistful of coins & pocket-lint, you could send a cheque/money-order to said address. I would then cash the cheque and buy something w/ the money. (Shoes? A top-drawer ideer, old chap!) The whole transaction (moola from you to me, w/ love) needn’t come to the attention of the Feds. Or mom. I’ll hafta chat this over w/ my attorney, and it may come to pass that I’ll be req’d to offer some service/product in return for yr kind donation. There used to be striking "Mr. Smutty" garments, but those are all gone and new-phangled revisions to the child-labour laws make the prospect of more rather unlikely. (The aforementioned shirts do, howev, turn up soiled & stained at thrift stores, so keep those eyes peeled.) I s’ppose I could pull a Boggsian stunt and send you a receipt for whatever it is I ultimately buy w/ the money; I could even put the receipt in a cheap Loonie-Store picture frame, and we’ll call it "art." If that doesn’t massage yr fancy, I could use yr name in an upcoming column. Please specify whether you’d like yr moniker dragged thru the mud via simile (e.g. "This garbage strike is beginning to smell like [insert name here]") or obscure reference (e.g. "Bib overalls after Labour Day? That’s sooooo [i.n.h.]") or casual mention (e.g. "In other news, [i.n.h.] lost her/his eyebrows in a bizarre knitting accident. Said a veteran loudmouth who was called to the scene after eavesdropping on a police scanner, ‘I am speechless’"). In closing, if you are an officer of the law, then I want to be perfectly clear that the above musings are intended "for satirical purposes only," and are not to be ingested internally. For the rest of ya, never send cash in the mail. (Wink!)

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