I cut him off today. Howard, I mean. Told him don't call, don't email anymore. Go away.
He said you don't mean it. I said hell yes I do. He says if you really mean it, then open this next email I'm sending you right now, and I want you to read it and really think about it, Curt, and if you really want me to stop writing to you every day and begging you for money because my campaign went a little over budget because things didn't go so swell in Wisconsin, I can do that for you, but not before, Curt.
Not before I've told you about the new ImagiNation we're building.
Curt, should not nation building begin at home?
Well, that's expensive whether you have a party or not.
You send me money, and together we'll form an ImagiNation, the likes of which have never been seen! Yaarg!
I was presented with three options as I recall. And I apologize to Howard for working off memory but I'd hate to dig it out of the trash because it was so hard to get rid of and I don't want to get it again. The shaving, the ointment, the sheets, the boiling, oy, the itching nothing works is getting worse is inmybutt is inmyface is zin my mayo! If I seem a bit crabby, it's this parasite here. As I recall, my options were:
a) Howard, I changed my mind! Sign me up for the maximum!
b) Sorry, Howie. Gimme minimum.
c) No thanks
I chose letter c) No thanks, and was brought to a new window where I was required to prove that I was actually Curt Fisher by re-typing the mysterious wavy letters exactly as I see them on my screen. Oh boy. I'm pausing now. He's got me. My hand is hovering. It's warming up, the wrist is flexed, I know it's futile, I want to punch him.