LETTERS

Damon Leads the Literary Voting by a Narrow Margin

The following arrived in response to our Reading Issue and its packet of 112-word short fictions.

Damon Hodge's piece "Identity Crisis" easily wins my pick for the best 112-word piece of fiction. Geoff Schumacher's was pretty good too.

I enjoyed Bobby Bryde's story titled "My 6/5 Problem—and Vegas'" [As We See It, October 23]. The casinos are getting greedy, and the only way the 6/5 game will go away is if we get the word out that this game gives too much of an advantage to the casinos. It's already impossible to beat the casinos without counting and spreading your bets, and the casinos kick you out if they think you are counting. A casino would rather win $100,000 and lose only $10,000 from customers at their blackjack tables during a busy weekend, versus winning $200,000 from customers and losing $30,000 to the advantage players. The move to 6/5 tables further shows the casino industry's greed.

Lies, Damn Lies and Dickensheets!

I'm shocked—shocked—by the plethora of expletives attributed to Bill Branon in your interview ("It's like a Self-Autopsy," October 23). That such language could be attributed to a senior officer in the U.S. military stretches credulity. Are you unaware of the civilizing effect of our Women in the Military programs? Of the services' ubiquitous Sensitivity Training classes? Of the sweeping, effective efforts to harness politically incorrect utterance?

Our military savors its expanded role in affecting presidential legacy as much as it appreciates taking a bullet for Exxon. Are you bereft of the ability to parse the semantic "conspiracy" = "contingency planning"? That you assay to besmirch a career military person does you dark credit. Your further implication that any military man (or woman) might be yoked to some type of gentle mental disorder smacks of sensationalism and chicanery. Did you perhaps ply him with drink? Play fast and loose with your keyboard? Sacrifice truth to the foul beastie of editorial license in addition to attributing those crude salvos of expletive? Have you no conscience? May you be hoisted by your own prick petard.

Fie! Fie on you, Scott Dickensheets! Fie! Fie!

Editor's note:
Anything but "fie"!

More Bullying

The following arrived in response to "Fighting Back," Steve Bornfeld's October 16 cover story about how a case of corporate bullying forced him to confront episodes of childhood bullying:

(Laying prostate on the ground, curling into a fetal ball, Bornfeld throws his lunch money at the bully's feet. Through choking sobs and tears he cries out: "Here, you big bully ..! That skinned knuckle will sure teach you!" "Yeah, sure will," the bully replies, as he picks up the money and gives the sniveling wimp a final kick, "... that this gets easier every day.")

Bornfeld, you limp-dicked, wimp-ass ooze of maggot excrement, the opposition lawyer won! Your forking over the money in any amount equals admission of guilt in law. If what you say is true, there is not a jury in this country that would not have found in your favor. Then you sue the Movant for everything the son of a bitch is worth, multiplied by 10. With his property in jeopardy, he settles and you retire to Rio. That's the way it works for those with balls to fight.

If you do lose in court, you take final action. The real Nobel Peace Prize goes to those who have the guts to use his invention to level the property and corporate offices of those who sue him to begin with ... while the Movant and his lawyers are on the courthouse parking lot licking the void where their balls used to be as the smoke from the shotgun blasts slowly drifts skyward. You got what you deserved. I wish I could find somebody like that to sue me. I could use the money. I wait for the day I'm no longer on medication and under Dr.'s care.

This Week's Best Tut-Tutting, Moralistic Letter to Sonja

Hey Sonja, what's the deal? Why don't you relax with your kids for a while? They'll give you all the love and confidence you seem to need.

Being a mother is a pretty amazing job. Of course, there's no shimmery gels, spiked heels, or G-strings required. It might not make for juicy reading in the Weekly, but frankly, I've grown to find you tiresome. What kind of decent, hard-working, caring man would be interested in a woman/bearer of children who can't get past her nightclub whims? I wonder how your children feel about your "Man Parade." Maybe you have a good excuse. Maybe your mother was a whore and an alcoholic (or afraid to parent). You probably would have done anything for her undivided attention. Even turn into her. You open your legs too fast and too furious. Close your legs and make a lap for your children to sit in. They'll be happier adults, and possibly parents. Maybe you'll feel better, too. Grow up and be a mother or quit mentioning your offspring in your column. Then we can forget about them too, and vicariously join in on your "Naughty Lifestyle."

I'll Be Your Sledgehammer

The following arrived in response to last week's Wink column, in which Sonja decided she needed a fling, had one, and decided she didn't really need one after all. This fella obviously didn't read down to that last part:

You said you want a commitment-phobic sexual dynamo. I'm your man! I'm 39, never married, nor gay, and would love to explore your naked body. I'm strawberry blond, 5-10, 175 pounds and just love to eat salsa girls. Don't waste your time with anyone else. I don't want anything other than a chance to satisfy your animal desires.