This Week | Links | About David

Previous Articles Exposing Hollywood's anti-German agenda I'm not ashamed to be religious or a liberal 'Beat Me with a Stick' Elmo and other great toys Making a difference: why I do what I do Telemarketing ban has ended a great pastime I don't rule the world, and that's fine with me Making the journey from prejudice to understanding There's no comparing genocide and killing geese All that's left is an empty feeling An unrequited love for some really neat words Foster dads offer hands and hearts ... for the time being. Thanksgiving dinner and other forms of ritual madness. Zen and the art of not getting run over by a Mack truck A lifetime of regrets as another year goes down the tubes Reform Party Convention ends in shoot-out Virtual immortality isn't all it's cracked up to be Insider's look at the Republican National Convention turns up many surprises Car Repair for Dummies, Part One: This is a Car Sadness marks the passing of a beloved mattress At last, something worse than 'Jane Eyre' Every town has a story. Tombstone has a fixation. Forget the Trekkies, the real nutcases are on the Luce Chalk one up for the faceless restaurant customers Feeling sick? Maybe it's time to get a shave. Guest Writer: Toto, I don't think we're in Mayberry anymore Guest Writer: The need for speed Does this mean we won't get free popcorn anymore? Out of the way, Martha Stewart -- I'm in the kitchen now How I'm surviving my brush with 'Jane Eyre' First blizzard of the year evokes frivolous memories, no deep thoughts Isn't it time to jump on the bandwagon with the Real Thing? Forward this column and you can turn e-mail into $300! Trips to the moon, disaster figure in mildew prognostications True confessions (more or less) of a closet survivalist Who understands what dreams may come? Hey, everyone, look -- it's an elephant! Wouldn't 'Senator Learn' have a nice ring? To my little girl: while you're sleeping . . . Special Report: Entering the Baby Zone Battling the suburban white whale Wanted: Politician to tackle key issues Something else to worry about this fall Wanted: Dumber Mice and Better Mouse Traps One More Stop on the Road to Adulthood Follow the fashion leads of the journalist from Krypton This is why naming children by committee never caught on Psoriasis may be ugly, but at least it doesn't leave scars Another casualty of the ancient family curse Quest for baby names too big to handle How the seniors taught me to get down And don't forget your scarf when you go inside Guest Writer: No room for Paradise as vandals force Dew Drop Inn to close The samba of the mad Vulcan Maybe I could be directed by Spielberg The aliens in Rhode Island don't want you to read this Voice of nostalgia is a call to destruction My wife is having the baby, but I look pregnant The end of the world as we know it Run for the hills - Y2K’s a’comin’ fast What's in a name? Shakespeare had no idea Don't waste your energy on the 'gas out' Career choice leaves a lasting mark One Easter leftover, hold the ham please

Forward this column and you can turn e-mail into $300! By David Learn I finally have found a use for stupid e-mail. With just a little effort, I recently earned a few hundred dollars on it. I classify stupid e-mail into three distinct categories. First is the senseless petition for a nonexistent cause, like saving "Sesame Street" from Chechnyan rebels who want to sell Big Bird for $4.99 a pound on the open market to buy munitions. Second are bogus alerts about viruses that will cause planet Earth to wobble uncontrollably if you open an e-mail titled "Help a poor dog win a free vacation!" Third are warm, fuzzy inspirational vignettes. These are the worst, and surely originate in the very pits of hell, where Bill Gates - numerologically identified as the Antichrist in several e-mails I have received and on many Web sites I have visited - has assigned a mail-daemon, third class, to fill the Internet with inane messages about God, the meaning of life and e-mail tracking giveaway offers. These pieces of inspiration typically go something like this: A boy is walking down the street, when he is crushed flat by a falling piano dropped out of the cargo hold of a Boeing 747. It's very sad of course, and the boy can't figure out why no one else notices the bright shining "birdies" who keep flying around him and playing Don McLean's "American Pie" on their harps. Anyway, as the boy stands there, listening to the "birdies" sing about Bob Dylan and the Scopes Monkey trial, a dog comes by and licks the face of the boy, who comes back to life and begins his divinely appointed task of telling everyone all about those beautiful "birdies." After this heartwarming tale comes the kicker. We discover at the end of the story that the dog was actually God, who was walking backward for some reason, thus reversing the spelling of his name and effecting a disguise. We're also asked to forward the letter to everyone we know. (If you've been deeply moved by this tale, I won't mind if you dry your tears before you read on.) These e-mails usually are preceded by personal messages from 23 people you never heard of before, all of whom claim to be deeply touched by the inspirational message. "I hat [sic] to send frowards [sic], but this was so beautifull [sic] I just cried and had to pass it on to you!" is one common motif. Another is, "I never liked dogs before, but after I read this e-mail, I bought a black Lab. The next day, I went to the hospital for a checkup and my tumor was gone!" I'm sure these people have been touched by something, but I don't think it was the story. I tried to stop getting these forwards, and sent several messages telling the senders how much I really didn't want to get them. "Mom," I wrote, "I've seen these things a million times before and they annoy me. Please stop sending them to me." It never worked, though. So a while ago, I decided I had had enough. It was time to fight back. If I couldn't stop them, I was going to perpetuate them, but I was going to do it my way. I took these pieces of inspiration and began to rewrite them, making what I think of as "improvements." One of the first I personally hit was a touching (there's that word again) vignette called "The Cracked Pot," a title I probably should use for this column. In this story, a water-bearer has two pots, one of which miraculously has developed intelligence through a trip to Rhode Island in the trunk of a 1992 Buick Century with a rubber band and a can of mushroom soup. The pot feels guilty because it spills water through a huge crack in its side. In the original, the servant uses that leak to water flowers along the path, and then the writer goes into a touching (there's that word again) homily that God uses our imperfections just like that blah blah blah blah and so everyone should be a crackpot. In my version, among other things the servant smashes the pot for its impertinence, and then slips in the spilled water and breaks his neck. It's much more satisfying than the original. Something clicked deep inside when I finished this rewrite. I had found a voice. In the months since then, my best friend and I have rewritten literally dozens of forwarded e-mails, including urban legends, poetry and more than a few inspirational stories. Some people find them hilarious, but others are concerned they aren't entirely appropriate. "Aw, you can't make fun of 'Footprints!'" a friend of mine objected. I suspect he is the inspiration for that particular story since he frequently dreams about walking along the beach with God. "No I will not send you any more devotionals," my brother Steve wrote me when I asked for more fodder. "To be honest, I find some of your 'spoofs' quite blasphemous and anti-God." (Steve backed down from that stance once I explained my satirical intent, and now just says I have no social skills. Well, duh.) I found the perfect vehicle for expression in "The Door," a magazine of religious-themed satire I subscribe to. A few months ago, I mailed "The Door" my renditions of three classic pieces of inspiration, including the ubiquitous "Footprints" poem. Last week, my copy of the magazine came, vignettes on the center pages, along with a check for $300. It's a nice feeling, especially since most of the writing already had been done for me. Now I just need to find a way to cash in on those stupid petitions and virus alerts. David Learn is managing editor of the Hillsborough Beacon. Permission is given to forward this article, but please leave this notice intact.