¡Los Bastardos Anónimos!

what the hell man you stole my internet name I am so frikin mad I am going to eat this whole bag of cheetos and cry in my closet GOD!

just kinda felt the urge to search for my nick, and, wow, it’s strange.

In your parody, La Caída Pequeña …
I actually do post in spanish, under the name “BASTARDO ANÓNIMO!”

Well, it’s not like I have an Internet Birth Certificate… But still… Weird.

If you have any doubts, I’ve maintained a webpage since before these fucking “blogs” were “cool”.
Since about 1999, but I threw most of that away.

Do you think you could at least put a link? Hell, just placing a link saying “Le Foro” pointing to my website www.leforo.com would be awesome … Hey, I’m the original 8-)

Then again, there’s lots of anonymous bastards out there.

—
Bastardo Anonimo
Gerente
www.leforo.com

Correção (Correction)

I am Portugese, and I want to correct you “schmucks” since the translation of My Big Fat Greek Wedding was translated as “Viram-se Gregos Para Casar”. So I’d Reeeeeeeeeally appreciate if you corrected the site [Y.P.R.’s Oscar Coverage 2003: “The Complete List of Nominees”].

Dourocopia

---

Y.P.R. nominated the film (mistranslated as Meu Casamento Grego Gordo Grande) in the category Best Title Translated into Another Language. (It lost to Confessions d’un Esprit Dangereux). Y.P.R. stands by its outsourced, robotic mistranslation.

Starbucks Letter Regarding Seemingly Illogical Size Nomenclature

Mr. Abraham:

Pass this info along to whomever is interested. Because us Americans are such pigs, Starbucks had to add the size Venti (Italian for twenty—as in the number of ounces in the cup) to the original three sizes: short, tall, and grande. The original three make far much more sense, but we are such greedy and insatiable consumers that the company had to try and pacify the bottomless collective depths of our appetite. The guy who wrote the letter [“Dear Starbucks,” March 9, 2003] should find better ways to research and more productive ways to satisfy his curiosities, rather than knee-jerk responding in venom to the success of a responsible corporation like Starbucks. The hot barista needs to be more familiar with the company that is providing her with comprehensive health and dental among other unprecedented benefits for unskilled part-time employees.

Peace and regards,
Kevin Landers
Starbucks Partner

Nipsey Fan Seeks Same

Dear Nick,

I was reading with interest your article from October 5, 2005 [“Dear Nipsey”].

It is interesting, and I was wondering if you ever found out who the owner of this AOL Nipsey Russell fan page is. I know this may sound like a very crazy question, but there is a method to the madness that I ask.

1. I know that this person is from Princeton, Illinois, where I grew up.
2. Somehow, back in the 1994/1995 timeframe, this person found out what my AOL ID was, and would send me criptic notes about growing up in Princeton, and things that “we” did … . Problem with that is that all these things were group (school, summer baseball, etc.) type activities.
3. As soon as I got married, the e-mails stopped and I could not get a response.
4. This person contacted the class president and let them know what my e-mail address was, so that I could receive information about classmates, reunions, etc. The class president doesn’t know WHO this person is … . He has nothing, other than one e-mail from NipseyR@aol.com with a short list of names and e-mail accounts that helped him get in touch with us … .

I am curious as to who this person is, and with the holidays coming up, I would like to send them a mystery gift that will brighten their day … .

Especially since Nipsey Russell passed away this year.

Thanks if you can assist me.

J.D.

We Should Go Hat-Shopping Together Sometime, Pt. II

Hi Jimmy,

Just read an acticle about your huge head [“My Huge Head,” April 10, 2003]. Exactly what is the size in cm or inches? My head is 62 cm (24 inches). Just wondered if my head is large or really massive.

Cleveland
info@have.co.uk

We Keep Yelling "Rooster"

Hey Y.P.R.,

I went to a reading by David Sedaris tonight and during the book signing, he asked me what I did and I told him I was a writer. He of course asked me what I wrote and I told him I currently write humor, mostly for Web sites, such as McSwys, Yankee Pot Roast—“YANKEE POT ROAST?!”, he interrupted, delighted at the name. He kept repeating it, “Yankee Pot Roast, Yankee Pot Roast” and smiling. After the book signing, he read his piece in the current New Yorker. Then after Q. & A. he went outside to smoke and, being a fellow smoker and Sedaris groupie, I followed along. He kept asking me about Yankee Pot Roast. He said he didn’t have the Internet, but he was going to look it up.

David Sedaris is delighted with Yankee Pot Roast.

Best,
Angela Genusa

Rapid Eye Movements

Dear Y.P.R.,

Seriously—that blinking Malcolm Gladwell freaks me out. Make it stop. I’m going to have trouble sleeping tonight.

Yours,
Brian Graham

Huh?

From: Rebekah Hillsman
Subj: Huh?

O.K., so how do I send a birthday card to Christopher Walken??

From Nairobi with Love

Geoff,

Someone just e-mailed me your rather innovative letter to Lesotho, which I’ve pasted below to refresh your memory.

Let me say plainly, despite your assertion to the contrary, that I’ve never touched Lesotho soil, or anyplace else on Lesotho. Lesotho and I are not acquainted at all.

Marc Lacey
Nairobi Bureau Chief
The New York Times

[Dear Lesotho]

It's Shauna, but Most Guys Call Me Shawna.

Well, I don’t think there’s any way of figuring out the spelling, because according to the (supposedly) original script (http://www.hundland.com/scripts/FerrisBuellersDayOff.txt), on page 189, it’s:

BOY: What’s your name?
JEANIE: Jean. What’s yours?
BOY: Garth Volbeck.

And that’s all these grubby paws could dig up. I guess the only way to
know is call ol’ Johnny H. himself. IMDb probably has has his agent’s
number, but I’m too cheap to pay the long distance.

Good luck,
Bob Weisz

Morons

Folks—

I’m assuming that it wasn’t ironic on the table of contents of the One-Question Interviews that you misspelled my name the other way. If it was intentional, it doesn’t work. If it wasn’t intentional, it makes you look sloppy.

Mark Moron
MarC MAron

Yo, Muthafuckers

Dudes!

Remember me? Its like, West, from college.

I accidently hit yer site when my keyboard malfunctioned whilst jackin’ it to some hard core shit. Seriosuly.

Anyway, I was, like looking fer a gig where i could like, get wasted 24/7 and still make some cash 2 boot, articulating about some cool shit.

I was thinking maybe I could work for you. I’m real smart, you know.

Peace.

Eric

I Named the Dog "Indiana"

subject: Your Insight Sought!

Dear Yankee Pot Roast,

Today, I adopted the most adorable puppy from the shelter.

F.A.Q.: Heyyy now, doesn’t everyone consider their puppy/ mewing, puking infant/ genitalia the most adorable?

A: I have evidence. Of the puppy’s cuteness, not my penis’s or infant’s (though, funny tangential story, a lesbian couple bought my sperm a few days ago—fatherhood, here I come!). Here:

And here:

Clearly, its pulchritude is not under dispute. However, its name is. My mother suggested something asinine like “Duke,” which I rebutted with “Ludus” after the Latin infinitive “to play,” also a term in psychology for playful love. I refuse to name my puppy Duke. She’s not so keen on Ludus, which, though in definition a sound choice, does sound lame and also a lot like “lewd” with a superfluous suffix.

I decided that I should recruit the brilliant folks at Y.P.R. to settle this. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to name my adorable puppy. He is male; soon to be androgynous. However, you mustn’t allow my anonymous puppy’s quagmire to divert you from your pursuits of amusing the masses! No pressure. We can keep calling him puppy for a while until I have a flash of insight.

Appreciatively!

Devin Needler

---

Devin,

Your poor, poor pooch! Has he been running around namelessly while we dillydallied all week? We apologize; the October surprises have been hogging our thoughts and feelings.

Still, naming a dog is not to be done rashly. Over the last few days, we’ve weighed the merits and flaws of potential doggy names. Shortly, we will present a list of names we’ve deemed appropriate for your adorable pooch. Many factors were considered: the spirit of Ludus, to play, without the burden of elitist snootery (for which the other dogs would likely tease or bully him); the explosive cultural zeitgeist at the time of the pup’s adoption; the looming emasculation; and, of course, what sounds good to our ears’ gut instincts. Yes, ears have guts.

Before we present our list, we’d like to state that we are humbled and honored to have been given such an important responsibility. We only hope we’ve done you and dog proud. For your consideration:

Zanzibar
Mr. Pibb
Blog
Peeve*
Frolic
Cavort
Derrida
AwesomeDog ®
B(ea) A(rthur) Baracas
Stumpy
Eugenides
Nutsy
Flipflop

Who could have imagined the art of dog naming could be so delicate? We hope there is one name among the contenders that sings out to you. If not, we can whittle it down or select a single one ourselves. Good luck.

Your dog’s best friend,
Y.P.R.

* So you can say: This is my pet, Peeve.

---

Dear Y.P.R.,

1) Zanzibar!

Zanzibar!

(Oh, deary me!)

Zanzibar!

I adore it. Its middle name is Zanzibar now. In the time that elapsed after my e-mail, it chicaned a great deal; it jumped over its fenced enclosure and ate things of ours it was not supposed to. So I named him Loki after the Norse god of mischief and chicanery, which also sounds cute in that devious sort of way, and is a name I wouldn’t mind calling out in public without bystanders suspecting I have Tourettes (is there an apostrophe in that? It is a syndrome presumably owned by Tourette, maybe through some arcane intellectual property law. I hate superfluous apostrophes almost as much as I hate America’s heartland and nether-regions, however, and in an event of ambiguity, I will err on the side of omitting them. I would look it up, but I’m late to lunch). Loki Zanzibar Needler. It’s perfect.

2) My dearest friend Emma and I compiled a list in the hair salon before she left to study in Germany for the next year. She had just picked up her Peace Corps application and was looking it over, and from this, “Hobbies and Interests That May Ensure One’s Automatic Rejection from Peace Corps upon Application” was born. My stylist to whom I brought her was amused as we bantered, and gave it his approval for whatever it’s worth.

Hobbies and Interests That May Ensure One’s Automatic Rejection from Peace Corps upon Application

By Emma Cunningham and Devin Needler

Hoarding water
Replacing birth-control packets with placebos
Sabotaging irrigation ducts
Infesting clean crops with maggots and locusts
Arson
Substituting drain-solvent for inoculation serums
Recruiting missionaries for my cult
Planting mines
Ethnic cleansing
Contaminating nutritious soil with gasoline
Dousing latex condoms in oil

*     *     *

Until another day!
Devin

---

Devin,

Tourette syndrome.

Ta,
Y.P.R.

Sunday, October 24, 2004

Allston’s Favorite Drunk

Hi Y.P.R.,

Just reading your “Dear Y.P.R.” section and came across the letter from Alexis Tirado, titled “Seen and Heard in Boston.” She shows a photo in a deli window and then posts several photos of an “odd pied piper of sorts.” That odd pied piper is none other than Mr. Butch, Allston’s favorite drunk. Before his fluting days, he would carry around a large suitcase with the words “The Mr. Butch Show” printed on the side. Only it wasn’t much of a show, he would sit on the sidewalk next to the open suitcase and strum his guitar arrhythmically. Sometimes he would run into the street without warning and bang on the windows of cars driving by, screaming “NO-GOOD DIRTY RUSSIANS!”

During the summer, I would ride by him on my bike in the morning and he’d be sitting on the street corner, drinking a Bud. Oftentimes he’d be wearing an American-flag tie, sometimes three or four at the same time. Once I saw him yelling into a stapler as if it was a cell phone, “Can you hear me? Hello? Are you there? Hello?”

I moved out of Allston recently, and seeing Mr. Butch brought back some fond memories. Thanks, Alexis and Y.P.R.

Sincerely,
Monday, September 27, 2004

Who's Your Momma?

from: Robin Slick [Robin81700@aol.com]

O.K., since you asked, and I’m so glad you did, I will tell you what I’ve been up to. This summer I went on tour with my rock star kids. There’s a movie made about them which premièred at the L.A. Film Festival called Rock School which was bought by Newmarket Films and which will be premièring in theaters worldwide March 5, 2005 (www.newmarketfilms.com). In conjunction with the upcoming release of the movie, we traveled to the West Coast by plane and then did 5,700 miles by bus, going everywhere from Las Vegas to Seattle to San Francisco to Salt Lake City to even—arghh—Boise, Idaho. Here’s what I learned on my trip:

(1) That no one over the age of twenty-five should ever have to spend three nights straight on a bus with just one driver who keeps falling asleep at the wheel (in spite of federal regulations that say you need two bus drivers if the distance is more than fifteen hours away. I know you said the bus company was reputable, but why did he have to keep saying he was Pakistani and didn’t understand me when I asked him simple questions like Where the hell are we?). Since you made me sit upfront alone and away from the rest of your band, I was appointed his chaperone by default. You see, once I heard him snore while we were traveling on Interstate 80 and we crossed the median and almost got hit head on by a tractor trailer, I was awake for the entire subsequent fourteen days.

(2) That when there is only one bus driver traveling that distance all by himself, he will never clean the porta-potty, thereby reinforcing my above remark that no one over the age of twenty-five, especially a pre-menopausal woman with an overactive bladder, should ever be on said bus in the first place.

(3) That there is a hostel in Los Angeles where your manager was kind enough to book us the few nights we did have a hotel which is a year-round residence for not just transvestites, but Goth transvestites. I’d never have known Goth transvestites existed and I want to thank you for the image I will have forever—thirty or so men with their heads shaved, wearing white face makeup and black eyeliner, lipstick, and nail polish, and high heels. Oh, did you happen to notice their apparel? Probably not, because you were busy getting something to eat while you left me in charge of watching all of your guitars and amps in the lobby for two hours until around 3:00 a.m.. Well, if it wasn’t so nauseatingly touristy, I’d have taken pictures, so I will tell you instead. They had vertebrae painted on their naked backs, and little miniskirts made of clear plastic, which did have haphazardly placed appliqués in front but absolutely nothing at all in the back. Within fifteen minutes, I saw thirty nude male asses, a new all-time record for even me.

(4) That when you turn kids loose in Haight-Asbury, even supposed straight-laced musicians like those you assured me were in your band, they will buy whatever illegal substance is offered, and you haven’t lived until you’ve spent the night with kids on mushrooms who have never done them before and don’t know enough to take them with milk. Can you spell V-O-M-I-T?

(5) That in spite of being fairly well known on the East Coast, it is not pleasant to be in the audience watching your pride and joys play to empty rooms in cities and witness the shocked and appalled expressions on their innocent faces when they find out they are not even the slightest bit famous and further learn that there will always be some asshole who shouts out “Play Freebird!” all evening long while said pride and joys attempt the difficult music of Frank Zappa. By the way, did it ever occur to you that audiences in Middle America may not have even heard of Frank? And to those who did, he is the enemy?

(6) That on said few nights we did have actual hotels in places like Boise, Idaho, and Salt Lake City, Utah, you guys had no reservations at all about kicking me out of my room at 12:00 a.m. so that you could have fun and games with your pals in private which led me to discover some interesting things. One, in spite of always saying how cool I am, I had heart failure walking the streets thinking about the possibility that my little girl was having sex with her boyfriend and my son might be drinking a beer or smoking a joint. Two, did you know bars in Utah can’t serve wine or whiskey and that you can only buy beer in ten ounce increments? That was probably for the best because in the state of mind I was in from both lack of sleep and worry, I probably would have gotten so loaded I might have done something stupid with a Mormon.

(6) That you can get killed just walking on the sidewalks in Las Vegas because they’re so crowded you can easily get pushed in the street and get hit by a speeding car, and speaking of said streets, you can’t cross them there—you have to use these sky walkways which always make you end up lost in a horrible maze, where, no matter which way you go, always take you to one place—the casinos. The scourge of America. Fifty-year-old women with fat bellies and midriff tops with tattoos. Smarmy men with gold chains. I even saw a woman drag an oxygen tank up to a slot machine there. The hope and despair I saw in that city will be with me a lifetime. It’s number one on my list of places I never want to visit again.

(7) That on the subject of casinos, did you know that other than the gambling and all the money thrown into them to make them so tackily gorgeous, they are nothing more than glorified shopping centers with Gaps and Dunkin’ Donuts? O.K., they have designer stores as well, but still—holy crap, it was like being in a cheesy strip mall in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, except every escalator down led to—you guessed it—the casinos.

(8) That as an East Coast liberal with all liberal friends who have assured me that John Kerry will win by a landslide despite my past experience to the contrary (i.e., still in shock that Nixon defeated McGovern in 1972—I call that the real popping of my cherry), there is a whole other, huge America out there who will be voting for Bush. And that there’s a very scary chance the bastard is going to be around another four years. Oh my god, I want to slash my wrists. Somebody do something!

(9) That I freaking love the East Coast and have no desire to ever live anywhere else. So when you guys get rich and famous as you keep telling me is both your destiny and in your immediate future, I will be wanting a brownstone in New York City, please.

Very truly yours,
Your Mother

A Wee Bit Sticky

My name is Frankenwurst Von Richter. My friends, of which I regretfully have none at this time, call me simply Frank. It is mainly Haileesh, the attendant at the filling station where I retrieve my sodas—which I dearly love (sodas)—who calls me Frank. Haileesh is my friend. Yes, I do have a friend. Haileesh.

Once, while filling my soda, I had a seizure and spilled it everywhere. When I came to, Haileesh was very angry but permitted me to refill my soda pop before helping me to the door. He locked the door afterwards and stared after me, I think because he wished to clean up the most dreadful mess I had made before a poor customer might slip and fall in it, injuring themselves. I would feel most awful if that were to happen. Haileesh is a kind man. When I have a seizure during my soda retrieval, he hits me about the face with his hands and his mop until I come to; usually I am very disoriented, covered in soda, and a wee bit sticky, but I calculate that I receive a little extra soda pop this way and that is never a bad thing. It is my own personal soda bonus. Haileesh does not strike me about the head and face with much force, so I do not bleed, and I very much appreciate this kindness of his. Haileesh is a kind, kind man; he smells a bit like fish and something else I cannot describe, but he is very nice to me. My father once told me that a man that hits me and makes me bleed is not a good man.

I think it is now being time for my soda retrieval. I will go and say hello to Haileesh, and perhaps I will view some duck or other fine fowl during my time of leisure. Life is good in America.

Sincerely,
Frankenwurst Von Richter
nrickenback@gmail.com

Marx and Engles to Spite

Today, I received an interesting present. Sitting on my piece of real estate in the biology lab was a hardcover edition of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. I discovered the identity of the gift-giver (in German, gift means ‘poison’), a cold-bloodedly conservative succubus, and it would delight me to exchange the book in question, valued at $42ish, for a book which topically discusses the assassination of her hero, Mr. Bush. While I’m at it, I might pick up some Marx and Engels to spite her, and if I have any cash left over, I’ll see if there are any souls available at discount prices that I could wrap up and leave in her locker or something. It’d be cool if she’d use the soul, but I fear she’ll eat it, or else use its market value to buy more subversive books.

Devin Needler

Kim Needs to Talk

from: Kim Bosch [kbosch@uoguelph.ca]
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]

My dear Y.P.R.,

Can you give me $48,000 dollars? Canadian dollars? I ask only because I really need the money. You see I would like to try and go to school in N.Y.C. Funny really. APPARENTLY it costs a SHITload to go to school in the U.S. Maybe I’m prematurely ejaculating with hope here, since I have yet to apply or even get in anywhere.

Let me tell you about what’s going on with me … let me, rewind.

In May I finished my undergrad and now I’m working in Scarborough (Toronto’s ’hood). Office shit. I won’t bore you with the details… but I will say this: I’m the youngest person who works here and everyone is trying to suck the life out of me in hopes that it will smooth their wrinkles.

I’m living with my parents in the rural suburbs of Ontario. It takes me an hour to get to work everyday. My father postulates everything out loud:

Dad: {{{Drinking a can of Coke}}}
Me: Did you know that Coke is in trouble for putting saccharin in their fountain drinks?
Dad: Saccharin?
Me: Yeah, it causes cancer in lab rats.
Dad: Oh… well, that’s O.K. I’m not planning on rubbing it on my skin.

My mother is alarmed when I make both too much and too little noise. If I’m making TOO much noise she worries that I’m restless and constipated, but if I make too little noise she worries that I’m dead. And she likes to do things… things like coming into my room to take the laundry from my laundry hamper at 7 a.m.

My Irish boyfriend is now living here for good. With me. At my parents’ house. This is both great and scary. However I find myself feeling boxed in at times, like when he’s teaching himself to play “Here Comes the Sun” on his guitar… OVERTOP of a CD playing in the room already. Plus immigration shit sucks. Things like fingerprints and proving our love for each other to governmental strangers.

And of course the pressure of marriage. That everything would be much easier if we got married. And my biological clock is causing me to have dreams about tiny little Thumbelina-type children who I squash within the first hours of their birth, only to have them come back to life, horribly disfigured, asking me to change a diaper they aren’t wearing…

And a brother who still, at 25, farts on my head.

Where am I going? What am I doing? Where have all the flowers (of my youth) gone? Don’t answer these questions… they’re hypothetical and beneath both you and I.

Back to life,
Back to reality.

Kim

Canis latrans

Dear Wile E. Coyote:

I have noticed that over the years, you have ordered a lot of merchandise from the good people at the Acme corporation. You must’ve spent a lot of money on Acme stuff, trying to catch the Road Runner. I can only assume that this is so you could eat the Road Runner. Wouldn’t your money be better spent buying a nice dinner? For instance, roadrunner à l’orange?

Just a suggestion.

Cathy Hannan
lostandfrowned.com

---

Dear Cathy,

You think I don’t know that? I’m a supergenius, for cryin’ out loud. The reason, my dear, that I spend every red cent on the Acme corpration’s endless supply of innovative gadgetry is not simply to satisfy my belly, which, by the way, is completely famished. It is because I enjoy the thrill of the hunt. No plate of roadrunner served to me by a butcher will ever taste as sweet as that which I outwit, ensnare, kill, and then prepare (à l’orange) myself.

Ta,
W.E.C., supergenius.

Also Available at Any New England Truck-Stop Diner

subject: Where to buy/order???

Why not include a listing (by ZIP code or city) of what restaurants in one’s area serves Yankee pot roast?

I used to have it once a week at Hamburger Hamlet, in Arlington, Virginia, near Reagan National Airport, but they removed it from the menu. Theirs was the best I ever had, and I miss it because it’s my favorite dinner. :-(

Jerry Fadely
Arlington, Virginia

Enquire Within

from: montessori12@aol.com
subject: Wet Nurse

What are the qualifications for a wet nurse?

---

Montessori,

DD’s.

Y.P.R.

---

what is DD’s

We Should Go Hat-Shopping Together Sometime

from: Kent Houseman [kentdman@yahoo.com]
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: Hello.

Hello, my name is Kent Houseman. This will be the weirdest e-mail you will get in a while. O.K., I read one of your articles. The one talking about the size of your head? Well I have a big head too and am suffering from severe anxiety/stress and antisocial behavior. It’s hard, maybe it doesn’t look as obvious as some think but it does to me in my mind. How do you deal with it, friend? I will keep this one short cause I can imagine what you are thinking already. Sorry if this e-mail is annoying or anything … I am an honest person.

Thank you.
Kent

?

from: Gene Morgan [genemorgan@mac.com]
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: Y.P.R., more like stupid-P.R.

Hey, POT ROAST!

What the hell do you think you are doing?

You think you’re better than me, huh?

Prick.

We’ll just see about that.

I have all kinds of wonderful products that go far beyond the snug little world you live in. Have you ever seen a donkey mask? Soap that smells like a mint julep? Old briefs that are way too big for me (fat period)?

And speaking of underwear, I bet you call your undershirt a “wife-beater”.

Pig.

I call mine a “wife-lover” because I love wives.

And adultery is so superior to abuse.

Go sex yourself,
Gene Morgan

Seen and Heard in Boston . . .

subject: Seen & Heard in Boston …

Hey Y.P.R. Staff:

I’m nervous about writing this since my grammar is all fucked up. I’m too lazy to read The Elements of Style for this e-mail! I just wanted to let you guys know I was thinking of Y.P.R. this weekend in Boston. I walked down Harvard Ave. and saw this sign on a window:

As I was taking the photo above an odd pied piper of sorts asked me to take a photo of him …

Your Interviews with Interviewers are fucking fabulous!

A Y.P.R. fan 4eva.

Alexis Tirado
www.AlexisT.com

Some Things Remain Impossible, Despite the Heart's Will

from: Lonnie Futrill
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: Need your help.

Am having Italian painting put in my home and need to have a sentence translated into Italian calligraphy. Can you help me please? The sentence is: “Nothing is impossible where there is a willing heart.” I realize this is really crazy thing to ask but I have searched everywhere I know to search and can’t find it. I would really appreciate any help …
Thanks,
Dawn

Most Logical Answer Yet

from: Rob Theakston [busymofo@yahoo.com]
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: Don’t know if anyone answered yet.

The ‘P’ in Alex P. Keaton stands for Peace. Elise and Steven were both hippies in the sixties. There was one episode where they had a flashback to when Alex was a baby and showed how Alex got his middle name.

Believe It or Not, He's Really an Attorney

subject: The spelling bee story sucks and fat naked guys in the gym

[Y.P.R. edits & commentary in red.]

Dear Yankee-Pot Roast Crew:

I visited your sight site again today in hopes of some sort of redemption. Just as like searching for breasts on Calysta Calista Flockhart, there was none to be found.

I have read some bad stories before, but did anyone at all review this crapola before it hit the front of the wWeb site? I considered calling the U.S. government to complain, but I’m not a minority, so who would listen?

I don’t think that imagining your parents dying in a wine vat is even remotely humorous. I suppose you laughed at the end of “Time Bandits” when the remaining chunk of evil killed that English kid’s parents. Sicko.

The fact that you selected this piece of snake poop for the front page only reinforces that your site space would better be used for porn (an always pleasurable experience) or a new mapping page.
[What’s a “mapping page”?]

While I have your attention, I’d ask you print this small request to the five readers who hit your site per day:

If you are a fat old man, please do not walk around naked at the gym. I am not what you would call a penis coniseur connoisseur. However, I know a fat, wrinkled death’s-door waste when I see one and, oh brother, cover yourself. To be honest, I’m not too keen on anyone walking around naked in my gym, but at least the middle-aged men don’t make me vomit on myself.

Further, just because I attend the same gym as you does not mean we should talk about our jobs. How gay is that?

Scenario: Naked old fatso in the men’s changing room, where I guarantee he has been for three hours doing nothing but being naked. Young man walks in and prepares to change so he can work out.

Old Man: Say, young fella, you new here?
Myself: In comparison to your age I would say everyone is rather new here, right?
Old Man: What I mean to say is, you new to the gym?
Myself: Hang on, are you naked? What the fuck are you doing? Whats wrong with you? SECURITY!
Old Man: Now hold on, young man, nothing wrong here.
Myself (between dry heaves): Is that what’s going to happen to me? Christ, my eyes.

Anyway, you see where this is going. Thanks for the helo. [What???]

Michael McNamara, esq.

I ♥ Scrushy

subject: HealthSouth C.E.O. Richard M. (“Red”) Scrushy, Jason’s ditzy spouse, Shannon.

Do ypu have pix of the herveys is all this true or just funny it would be very funny i hope some is true Thanx

Sean Tariel

Capricorn Rising

subject: Your Web site

I happened to come across your page and read much of what you had to say. I think you are a very mean-spirited person. What you have thrown out to various people will have a way of finding its way back to you. Maybe your attitudes do come from your being a Capricorn. I have a brother who is a Capricorn and is very much like the descriptions on your site.

But believe me, just because you have the right to do something in life doesn’t mean it is the right thing to do. Have a great day.

Rhonda Lackowski

P.S. Also, I’m not hiding behind a bunch of acronyms. If you’re going to spew these nasty words at people you aren’t even acquainted with, why don’t you use your real name?

---

Golly jeepers, Rhonda! What the darn heck are you talking about? Who’s mean-spirited? Who’s a Capricorn?

And, for the record, scuba and Nascar are acronyms. Y.P.R. is an initialism. And nobody’s hiding behing anything, you silly cow. Everybody knows who Y.P.R. is. Things credited to Y.P.R. are collaborative works by the editors of Yankee Pot Roast, and they are: George LeRoy, Henry P. Bustin, and Emily St. Claire.

Thanks for loving our awesome Web site.

Y.P.R.

---

You know exactly what I’m talking about. I do not know what “the darn heck” means. I never learned to speak or write that way. But, you are the mean-spirited person I conveyed to you that you are. You can tell in your writing. My calling Y.P.R. an “acronym” may have been a mistake on my part, but your addressing me “silly cow” is just another example of your mean-spiritedness. And “everybody” knows who Y.P.R. is? That is a major overstatement on your part. But thank you for addressing the names of the editors for me. That was so nice of you.

I’m not even going to reply to “your” thanks as I never said it, and the proper response would be “you are welcome,” which I won’t say either. Not that I am not a nice person, but that you certainly aren’t with your words.

And like I said before, what you throw out will come back at you. You can take that to the bank.

Rhonda Lackowski

---

We’re sorry we called you a cow in the heat of passion. We stand by our calling you silly.

We love you, Rhonda. We love the darn heck out of you.

Ta,
Y.P.R.

Let's Go Hoboken!

If Mr. Geoff Wolinetz can’t find anything good about Houston, Boston, the airlines, etc., maybe he ought to try Hoboken or Lower Slobovia or crawl back into his hole in the ground where he probably would feel more at home. We don’t like him either.

Betty C.

It's an Honor Just to Be Read

from: Todd Piepenbrok [thechinman@ameritech.net]
to:: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: Best Boy Nomination

Hello there, Y.P.R.,

I was doing the ol’ Google serach on my name and found that your Web site is the second listing. You have me nominated for BEST Best Boy for 8 Mile. May I ask who you are and how you know of my work on the film?

Thanks,
Todd “Chin” Piepenbrok

We're Working on It

from: John Graves II
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: an inquiry without capitals

Yankee Pot Roast,

As an admirer and appreciater of your online publication I wonder if there is a printed collection of the best daily pieces. I very much would like a volume if so, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, to laugh with and learn about my body with, to fawn and dote over, to develop an attachment bordering on dependence with, to become jealous of the power and hold and sway its opinion of me means to me, to accuse of infidelitous thoughts, to push down just once, and only because I’m so afraid of losing it, to stand in the rain across the street from at late, long hour intervals, to call in moments of drunken longing and cynicism, to wonder if, after so many
months without contact, it has my favorite green sweater, the one I’d been looking for earlier that week.

JRGII

Yum, pt. II

from: John Anderson [john.anderson1@rcn.com>]
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: Scrumptious Yankee

Hey, you guys … I just want to thank you from the bottom of my bottom round roast for that luscious recipe. Yankee Pot Roast will live forever in the annals of our recipe boxes. I found it in your Web site, drooled over it, and printed it out. THAT is the most delicious meal we’ve ever had. Thank you so much for your dedicated work. Happy Holidays. Ejoy!!!!

Linn Sheeran
Glenolden, PA

Yes, or Psoriasis

from: David Meiklejohn [SexNotProms@aol.com]
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: The P in Alex P. Keaton

A friend of mine said it stands for Parkinson, but she’s just insensitive.

In case you’re still looking, I found this Web site, and if it’s on the Internet…

http://inthe00s.com/archive/inthe80s/bbs16/webBBS_16362.shtml.

Regards,
David Meiklejohn

If We Were Marvel Comics, She'd Win a No-Prize

from: Monica G. Staples [mstaples@partners.org]
to:: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: Birthday letter to Rachael Leigh Cook

The answer could have been lobster too.

For the Record, That's Not Why We're Pissed at Ourselves

from: Mike and Julie Kronen [unme2@comcast.net]
to:: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]
subject: Skin Project

Aren’t you all cool?!? Someone comes up with a creative venue of expression and it seems you all are more pissed at yourselves for not thinking of it first.

Tsk Tsk.

Pot Roast Is for Lovers

from: Garry [Gmansduc@aol.com]
to: Y.P.R. [ypr@yankeepotroast.org]

Hello, Y.P.R., my name is Garry (36), was looking for a good pot roast. Found. Whoever wrote the recipe is a true romantic and won me over.

Happy Birthday, Senator Kefauver

Dear Y.P.R.,

Can I call you Y.P.R.? I would have written, but I’m too poor to buy a stamp. Besides, being a Web site, electronic mail seems more appropriate. But I digress.

Y.P.R., in a way we grew up together. I know your humor, I know your beauty, I have seen the potential you don’t live up to and I love you for it. But, I have a bone to pick with you. Everyday like the loyal fan I am, or possibly because I am the sister of you fraternity brothers three, I come for a visit and read the gospel. I laugh. I cry. I feel a flutter. Then I click to read today’s birthday card. And while the link might say “Happy Birthday to Estes Kefauver” what pops up is “Dear Mariah” or some other celebrity whose birthday was six months ago. This makes me sad. Is this a glitch, Y.P.R., or some twisted joke? Help me out.

My best to the wife and kids,
Andrea Wolinetz

Horseshit.

You made me laugh today, I thought it couldn’t be done. Thank you.

Yours,
Michelle Orange

Re: My Afternoon

Dear Y.P.R. Editors,

There are some days in a person’s life that go down in the record books. March 13, 1991, was just that for yours truly. Fresh from cutting out of 8th-period gym class, the minutes seemed like seconds as 2:30 p.m. approached without mercy. With two minutes to spare I reached my block and my fast walk skipped jogging speed and went straight to brisk run. Up the stairs and into the living room, my glass of iced tea and bag of BBQ potato chips would have to wait until a commercial break. It was true, the Gulf War had started, and President George Bush was being touted an historic figure of the 20th century, a man who stood by his word.

But none of that mattered, for March 13th was also the day that “Gummi Bears” was squeezed out of the Disney Afternoon by—and I cringe with a horror to write it—”Darkwing Duck” of all shows. Truly a dark day, as the show’s name indicates.

In retrospect, I should have seen it coming: Just a year earlier the all-star lineup from 2:00 — 4:00 was deemed the “fantastic four” by consensus of the 5th-period, Section 4 lunch table at Robert H. Goddard Junior High School of Queens, New York. The world of “Heathcliff and Friends,” “Gummi Bears,” “DuckTales,” and the least popular and understandably 3:30 slot “Chip and Dale’s Rescue Rangers,” (which usually lost out to “ThunderCats” anyway down the dial at Channel 5) would all come crashing down without warning. You see, those heartless corporate suits down at Channel 11 decided to drop “Heathcliff and Friends” at 2, with the addition of expert bear pilot Baloo in his breakaway from Mowgli’s shadow as the jungle boy’s movie sidekick for a starring role, albeit on network TV. And that was “Tale Spin,” the beginning of the end. Perhaps the only redeeming quality of the show was the theme song: oh ee oh, Tale Spin, oh-ee-ay Tale Spin, friends for life through thick and thin through another Tale Spin and so on. But honestly, this unwarranted, unnecessary, and unwanted cartoon spinoff was an omen of things to come.

Next to go was “Gummi Bears,” a crushing blow to Section 4, but something we all knew had to happen; syndication had began just weeks earlier on the pay-cable Disney Channel, the number one telltale sign that we at Section 4 would have to start paying to see the hijinks of Tummi Gummi (also the voice of Dr. Peter Venkman of “The Real Ghost Busters”) and antics of Toadwort and Dukems attempting to steal the recipe for gummiberri juice. But we somehow moved on, we had to.

But then was the final hammer blow that shook the very foundations of childhood innocence and marked the end of life as we had known. The aforementioned March 13, 1991, brought with it both shock and shame for this American institution. “DuckTales” was no more and “Darkwing Duck” took over. Out with the old, in with the new. Most shocking of all Gyro’s betrayal. For years he had been Uncle Scrooge McDuck’s behind-the-scenes right-hand man, inventing products all too crucial to Scrooge’s treasure finds such as Gizmoduck’s supersuit and Pep, a productless name which eventually turned out to be chewing gum that enables the chewer to fly, after Pep demand reached a feverish pitch due to marketing strategies. But I digress.

Gyro was now working for Darkwing Duck, and so was Scrooge’s old ace pilot, Launchpad McQuack, who managed to be hired for better pay despite a dismal safe-landing career and several warnings from Duckberg’s F.A.A. And just like that the supersleuth Scrooge McDuck, his duckling nephews Huey, Dewey, Louie, Webby , their friend Webbigail (Webby as we knew her best) and the rest of Duckberg’s population that had grown on us over the years, even old Flinthart Glomgold and the Beagle Boys, would no longer be able to make us laugh and cry for free. They had joined syndication superstars the Gummi Bears on the Disney channel, leaving the hot-lunch kids of Section 4 out in the cold. We reluctantly moved on, aided and comforted by the crap television such as “Mighty Morphin Power Rangers” and other Saban real-life morphing shows that followed the loss of “DuckTales” to help us appreciate what we had.

Y.P.R. editors, it’s now just over 12 years later, and while coping with the loss will never be a true reality, I can look back to those days of iced tea and BBQ potato chips and smile.

Sincerely,
J. D. McGregor

Semper Fi

from: Brandon Waller [wallerbm@yahoo.com]
subject: What a laugh.

Thank you, Y.P.R. I think the site is great and look forward to reading it each day. Even in my current state of depression, I am able to laugh and enjoy. For that I thank you.

One other note—our nation’s threat condition has been lowered to yellow.