Intro
As you all know, in my last post, “Run Gypsy Run… Run from your Problems” I referenced the small North Dakota city Gilby. I brought to the world's attention the tragic story that plagued the good people of Gilby and ultimately put them out of contention for hosting the 2020 Olympics. Recently the Mayor of Gilby contacted me via email.
Greetings from Gilby, the nation’s number one source of paper plates. I am sure you already know of our community’s illustrious history in the paper plate industry. We feel the satisfaction people receive from avoiding cleaning dishes after a mouth watering meal is near orgasmic. Speaking of orgasmic, I had to hold back a tantric sized explosion in my bottom front regions when I read your post. The publicity our grand city has received since your blog has been overwhelming. Due to your good nature and exceptional story telling literary skills Gilby's unemployment rate has decreased rapidly. Tourism is now considered a viable means of revenue as the people flock to see the gypsy ruins and hear stories of Gypsy mischief first hand. The local NRA has a new shooting range where you can demolish cardboard cutouts of squatters. The Gilby online directory has doubled staff members 200%, now with an impressive four webmasters, due to the increase of hits on the server. The local newspaper, the “Gilby Gazette”, had to create a new column devoted to Wizini Nation. I included an excerpt:
“Even though the Gypsy’s have vanished into to wind as they very often do, the mental scars and agonizing shame would not disappear. During moose season while sitting in my tree stand, drunk as a monkey that drinks his own piss with a cooler of Milwaukee’s best and fresh copy of Hustler ( I am a monthly subscriber by the way), I would sometimes hear a faint tambourine sound in the distance. The more I drank and drank and drank, sometimes to the point I fell out of the tree, the louder the terrible tambourine jamboree would get. One day while hunting, the gypsy orchestra was so unbearable I began shooting stray lead into the woods while yelling at the top of my lungs “Die Gypsy Die”. During my Rambo-esch enraged adrenaline induced invisible Gypsy killing spree, I managed to fall from my tree stand breaking my “Hustler” hand and punctured my left lung on a tree branch. I write this from my recovery bed at Gilby general hospital. NOTE: I apologize for my handwriting being poor; I am not used to writing with my “Playboy” hand. Gilbians (residents of Gilby) have lived in denial for too long. A blessing from a previously unknown hero was casted over our community the moment Wizini pressed "publish". My children need role models. Being that am a man that falls short of societies standards for role model emulation I am proud to say my four year old has a picture of Wizini in his room and prays to JESUS CHRIST Lord and savior AY MAN Hale-Jew-U, that his “real” father will someday come and bring him to Disney Land. Thank you Wizini from the good folks of Gilby. Expect some moose jerky sent your way as soon as I get out of this hospital.”
Darryl “Pie Pocket” McChristopherson
I can assure you that this coming holiday season while Gilbians are cutting the turkey they will be thankful for what you have done. You have given a voice to our city and opened the door for us to move on and be proud again. Thank you.
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My Responds
Gilby will forever be my one true happy place to go in my mind. When I want to escape the hinder of everyday monotony and pattern designed straight forward normalcy, I will think of Gilby and unleash myself in a creative matter that is just borderline of insanity. I imagine a neighborhood without Wal-Mart, Starbucks, or any other corporate mega chain that destroys small family businesses. Where the butcher knows exactly what you want when you walk into the meat store and is shocked when you change your mind all of a sudden on day because you have just gotten tired of honey baked ham and would like to try the (insert meat here), because a friend told you it was delicious and he ate it in front of you at work the other day, offering you a bit but to your disappointment, it had mayonnaise and you hate mayonnaise so much that simply whiping it off with a industrial sized napkin is not good enough. Another reason I love your city is because everyone seems to have a nickname. I have talked to other Gilbians on message boards: Ron “Night time” Davidson, the 24 hour gas station owner that loves to smoke a pipe while simultaneously pumping watered down gas, Cheryl “Virgin” Tumblen, the prostitute oxymoron’s are amusing, Gary “2 fast” Ruger, Gilby’s version of MacGyver and probably one of the coolest guys I have ever talked to, and your brother Franklin “Also not the President” Rosenvelt. Reading your email and hearing how my post has affected Gilby brings great joy and excitement to my life. I woke up this morning considering offing myself. I decided to check my email before I pumped my wrist to expose the main vain and begin my bloody decent to hell while staining my very comfortable yet affordable couch. Now, as I recline in my very comfortable yet affordable couch, I think of what other magnificent things I can do for the world. Thank you Mayor Teddy “Not the President” Rosenvelt and thank you all Gilbians. Except for Steve “Big time” Vallossey (That guys seems like a tool) when I visit Gilby please make an effort to avoid me or I will destroy you mentally to the point of no return, leaving you abolished to the outside world rendering you a thoughtless incoherent bag of organs that rocks back and forth on the toilet quoting lines from 40 year old virgin. I hate you Steve “Big Time” Vallossey. I fucking hate you.
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