Dear Chuck Norris,

Don’t hold your breath, Bill Brasky. Simply because a cult of Internet memephiles has been hacky-sacking your name around in tall tales and anti-aphorisms, doesn’t mean that anyone in the Mountain Dew demographic is going to take Chun Kuk Do classes, lobby for prayer in public schools, or vote for Mike Huckabee.

The googling masses may have deified you, but you are a curious sort of god. Unlike other almighty-mighties, you have been deemed worthy of worship because of — not in spite of — being illusory. Every answered prayer, every public statement, every evidence that you are more than a two dimensional silver screen image will cut into your divinity until one day the capricious crowds find a new golden calf more worthy of their humanistic magnification.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

Dear Sir or Madam,

It is the belief of some zoologists and most idiots that animals possess the capacity for language. I should think not. Given the sexual liberalism of most beasts, it is unlikely that they are able to speak to each other, as that is generally what fouls up the reproductive process for us “more evolved” mammals. Some of the most ardent of romances have been shattered by only a glib utterance. Conversely, some of the most successful trysts transpire without a word exchanged by the participants. Not even one of consent, if you widen your definition of “success.”

I have witnessed firsthand in the modern club and house party scene, how the contempt of communication has been accommodated. Music is played at such a volume that one is hardly capable of rational thought, let alone hearing, which is an even greater sexual expedient. Wang Chung blends into Chingy blends into the sound of your inner ear rupturing blends into an endless ocean of white silence and before you know it, you’re sucking a face you cannot place to a name, a voice, or a personality. This too could be a veritable boon, if none of these happen to matter (or perhaps apply) to you.

Furthermore, the current fashions of dance hamper any sort of connection between partners, except for the warm one between strangers’ arses and crotches. There was a time, granted, when the steps one had to memorize were so complicated that it negated all outside thought. Why, once while attempting the Manhattan Bunrug with a fetching lass I’d met that evening, she paused momentarily to ask my name. The lapse of coordination caused me to strike her neck with my wheeling ankle, breaking it. “That’s my name, you lead-footed cow!” I said to fill the silence of the stunned throng as I made my hasty exit. Note that the accident is the greatest crime of all. It is best to imply reason for all your random actions; most people deserve everything that happens to them anyway. Probably.

Over time the waltz, the samba, the impadògrée all degenerated into an easy, languid sway, suitable for the charmless and the drunk, not to mention overcrowded venues where both hearing and sight are nigh impossible and a casualty like my dancing partner would go unnoticed for hours or even days depending on how compacted she is by then.

You will find that when waxing metronomic with an arbitrary rump, that it is difficult to engage in any sort of meaningful communication. The meager request to see the girl’s eyes for a moment for example, should the sweaty, matted back of her head begin to bore you, will result in termination of the encounter. I was tracing the designer logo of your jeans with my glans a moment ago, madam, but you are right. Eye contact is far too forward.

This is hardly a primary source, but I am reminded of a story a close friend of mine told me about a young woman he knew who had given her virginity to a most unworthy suitor. Hardly an original predicament, but amusing nonetheless. It seems that after the deflowering, the prince was heard to exclaim, “Great success! High five?” à la Borat. She responded by sobbing uncontrollably for three hours. It was not said how the thief-of-hearts’ unflappable wit reacted to her shocking dismay, but I would imagine it went, “I deserve that, but considering this is the most we’ve spoken since meeting two hours ago, you probably deserve me.”

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site