DISPATCH: Letters From Evil Mammoth, Number Five

SUBJECT: It's Evil Mammoth From Years Ago
DATE: January 17, 2007

Hi Magdelene,

Hope you are dandy and that the halls of the High School are treating you well enough in this foul Year of Our Lord 2007 (that's 3 x 669, in case you were wondering).

I am writing to you at a moment of great consternation, both for myself and for an old compatriot of mine named Mathball. You might remember us. We were two ungrateful bastards who liked to fling irresponsible accusations and savage the class with our own brand of peculiar quasi-intellectualism. Needless to say, he has made more of himself by now than I have.

Regardless of our respective positions on the societal ladder, we continue to keep contact. Our most recent conversation fell upon the glories of the olden days, as our conversations often do. What glory, after all, is there to be found during the existential crises of one's early twenties? None, I tell you. It is a damnable time and subject to a great deal of retrospective reverie, but let's not get off the subject here.

I called him in an attempt to get my hands on some old documents, one The Devil's Repentance, and the other Small Talk. They were two plays we wrote for you hoping to receive a modest amount of extra credit, but instead, we both garnered a healthy chunk of masturbatory self-satisfaction by creating what we heralded as two masterworks the likes of which this world has never seen. The critics, however, furnished us with regrettably mixed reviews.

Sadly, neither I nor Mathball possesses a copy of these brave, epochal monuments to the literary tradition, and we were wondering, quite frankly, if you might have them. After this long, I'm sure the request seems absurd, but I know how teachers work, which is to say that I've observed my fair share of them over the years. I know how documents are thrown into one pile of scholastic inanities or another. Perhaps you might have a faint recollection of where you placed ours.

If not, please don't feel too sour. Mathball and I are planning a return to playwriting seeing as how the field seems to have been diluted with dullards, dolts, ditzes, and dingbats. We take it upon ourselves to give the theatre 500 cubic centimers of Pure Genius straight to the heart. The fuckers will never know what hit them, and with a bit of luck, Mr. Ball and myself will finally become household names among respected scholarly circles.

Great bronze statues of us will be erected on every college campus in America. Our names alone will be enough to titillate the desires of impressionable and prudish young women enrolled in Rennaissance Studies programs across the globe (which will be a feat in itself). Genetic perpetuation of our greatness will no longer be in question. In fact, we will have to be careful not to go hog wild and undermine the exactness or rarity of our brilliance by producing gross numbers of offspring.

Naturally, we would appreciate any help you might be able to throw our way in procuring these documents, and to alleviate any confusion, I would like to point out now that Mathball had nothing to do with this overlong blowhardian rant. He has not gone psychotic, and I have never been very good at begging favors.

Please let us know, and best wishes,

Evil Mammoth