Hello Beautiful Friends and Extended Family!!!!!

I only write ya'll when I'm stressed...usually someone acting up on the elevator triggers my three page tirades...but my life has been virtually stress free...

Did I tell you all about my trip to get my brother's birth certificate? Those of you that didn't get the memo, let's just say there were a lot of characters down there...‘Ghetto Fab.’ It was jam-packed in there. I got to the counter and filled out the forms to get the birth certificates (did you know it says “NEGRO” on my birth certificate under race? WOW!)…Anyway, you receive a number in the order that you pay. A person calls your number over the loud speaker, and then you pick up your document…All the while I was there, I hadn’t heard one number called. My numbers were 230 & 231…By the time I took my seat, I had been there for twenty minutes.

I sat next to these two ‘gentlemen,’ and after another ten minutes I started to listen to their conversation. At least one of them had been incarcerated (…and yes, he ‘was’...that response was for those of you who actually thought about asking ‘the question,’ but were too scared about what I would think if you asked...or for those of you that were clinging onto the glimmer of hope that he wasn’t).

Forty-minutes into my wait, I’m listening to this man talk about a guy he shared a cell with (or someone he knew in jail) that had a body count of twenty-two, and another one that had a count of eleven. And that the two men were actually being considered for parole because they were hit-men, or contract killers or whatever, and had testified for lighter sentences. All the while I’m listening to these stories, I’m getting from the tone of his voice that he’s proud of the fact that he knew these crazy people and that he feels his life has been made better by spending time in prison because he now knows how the system works...Couldn't he have found that out if he'd gone to law school? Or at least read a few books? I guess this way he doesn't have to worry about paying back all of those pesky school loans.

While I was listening to the ‘Sandman's’ cell-mate, I heard the first number called: “Now serving number 180...” WHAT THE?!?!?!?!?!?...If you’ve forgotten, I’m 230 & 231.

All of the Sandman's cell-mate’s previous accounts were interesting, but then he mentioned to the guy that he was about to go purchase a 1997 Land Cruiser. From a dealer no less. How he was able to do this was not my concern. But as I told this story to Sweetie (Sweetie=Wife), we began to ponder, what were we doing wrong? This man just got out of jail. Oh I’m sorry, out of ‘prison.’ Let me come again, THE PENITENTIARY. Now he is about to go purchase a sixty-thousand dollar SUV. This time last year, we (Sweetie and I) both had jobs, no criminal records and we were wondering if we could get the Jetta to the subway station that was less than a mile down the street. Obviously, we've been going about this the wrong way…

But back to work…If you don't know, I was downsized from my post as Head Border Painter at National Geographic...Can you believe they actually have computers that can do thousands of borders at a time? Like my 5 borders a day wasn't good enough for them anymore...They had to go and get brand new on me.....But you'll be happy to know that I landed on my feet at the World Bank...and I'm officially the Chief Penny Wrapper Ironing Specialist...That's right....I make sure that each penny wrapper is properly pressed before each usage...I'm working my way up to quarters...and that's when the Big Bucks start rolling in...They say I need a Masters Degree in Finance in order to iron dollar wrappers, and I'm not sure if I want to dedicate that much time and effort just yet because I'm still holding on to the possibility that I may win the PowerBall for $300 million...

I've talked to an ex-worker of mine, Colleen and she tells me that the Elevator abuse there has been rampant since my departure because there is no one there to put people in check for riding up or down the elevator a single floor...

It all started one day as I was going downstairs to get some more yellow paint to finish the borders on the upcoming issue--there was this lady that got on the elevator on the 8th floor…and got off at the 7th...What the...?!?!?!?

On my way back upstairs, as I was riding the elevator up, I got all the way up to the 8th floor and guess what happened...someone else got on the elevator and rode up one floor...What the...?!?!?!?

She said, “T, I know this is terrible, but I’m extremely lazy...” I said, “Oh girl I understand...” All the while I’m thinking... “I sure would love to poor some Hot Grease on you...”

Later that same day, as I was on my way to the basement to make some deliveries, I hopped aboard the elevator...and guess what...the elevator stopped on the 9th floor. This lady looked at me as if I was the reason that everything was going wrong in her life, and then got on the elevator. What button did she press? You guessed it! The 8th floor!...What the…!?!?!

No one at the World Bank violates any elevator rules except for the Americans...

I have authorized Colleen, with the authority placed in me from the society of 'PICOPOPHBDTEV'--to discipline anyone who commits elevator infractions...This includes people who pass gas, and then pretend that it was someone else...and people that get on, reeking of cigarette smoke

PICOPOPHBDTEV (pronounced PICOPOPHBDTEV) stands for People In Charge Of Passing Out Pipin' Hot Beat-Downs To Elevator Violators...Pico for short...I am the founding member...and the only member....we're searching for new members...initiation dues are double-chocolate cake and vanilla or chocolate ice cream...to be delivered to yours truly. We'll work on membership dues later.