Some correspondence with tampa (RIP)

Discussion in 'Chit Chat' started by Mr Subliminal, Apr 30, 2021.

  1. Apart from our public interaction here on ET, I exchanged private messages and emails with @tampa.

    I awoke to this PM on October 22, 2003 :

    A Morning Greeting
    Well, it would seem that, defying all odds, you have somehow managed to see the light of yet another day - somehow managing to cast darkness over the lives of good, decent people, such as myself.

    When one thinks of all those who did so much for so many who were taken from us overnight, and contrasts that with the unfairness of your living still one more day to spread misery and despair, it somehow seems incomprehensible in its inequity.

    Perchance, perhaps, the morrow will rectify the situation, and you will be called before your maker to answer for all that you have done, while the rest of us can live our lives free of the burden of knowing that a worthless pile of festering shit walks among us.

    (Do I have a way with kick starting a guy's day, or what? Bet you don't need no stinkin' coffee to get you going today, huh?)
  2. Early the following day, October 23, 2003, this was waiting for me :

    Another Morning Greeting
    And yet another sunrise - and yet another day where you have cheated the Grim Reaper out of his due. Yet another day to blunder through life, stumbling and bumbling along the path.

    And as before, so many who have done so much good were called home overnight. Good souls who brought cheer, where you bring sorrow. Good souls who accomplished so much, while you accomplished so little.

    A wise man once said: "Life is unfair". But your continued selfish insistence on living sets a new standard in measuring just how unfair it can be.

    Why not do the right thing for once? Do you have a trash compactor in the apartment? Then climb in, as you hit the switch. Find a tree service working in your neighborhood - hurl yourself head first in to the wood chipper. Perhaps you could donate your blood - all of it.

    You see, with just a smidgen of creative thinking there are so many ways to right the wrongs of your sad pathetic life. So many ways to cause people to say: "He was a pathetic pile of festering shit to be sure, but at least now he won't bother us any more".

    Think about it - but not for too long.
  3. From October 24, 2003 :

    Good Morning Mister Subliminal!
    It is estimated that more than 100,000 people died overnight across the globe. 100,000 good people who will sorely be missed. Moms and dads, brothers and sisters, friends and companions. Functioning, contributing members of society - gone now, never again to bring a smile, to do a good deed, or just to be there in a time of need.

    Human beings who only yesterday were living breathing souls, now turned to rotting flesh. Corpses whose foul smell of death already pollutes the air.

    Why couldn't you have been one of them?

    The Evil One stands at the gate to the Lake of Fire, becoming you. He has a special place of torment and eternal suffering reserved just for you - why deny him any longer?

    Who among us would miss you? A two dollar whore? Perhaps a crooked dealer at a third tier downtown casino? No, no one would really be any sadder for your demise. And yet some of us would squeal with joy, dance in the streets at the news of your passing. Why not do something for once that would be hailed by one and all - why not just kill yourself?

    Slash your wrists, step in front of a fast train, take one last long walk in the desert at high noon. The method is not as important as the result. And then tomorrow morning as the sun once again rises, as the birds sing, as children can be heard at play, we can open the newspaper and read: An estimated 100,001 people passed away overnight. 100,000 good souls who will sorely be missed. And one Mister Subliminal.
  4. From October 25, 2003 :

    Saturday's Morning Greeting...
    I had a talk with God today. He told me a very sad tale of a lad, a tiny lad even for his years, that will soon be taken from the family that so loves him.

    His name is Tim, and among numerous infirmities, Tim walks with a crutch. But his spirit is great, his humor an example to us all. While too frail to play outdoors with the other children, Tim does his best to help his mother around their modest home. Tim's father works for a grain merchant in London, and while the firm does well, his meager salary barely puts food on the table. To be sure, there are other children in the humble home, and each is loved by their parents - but it is Tim whom each has a special love for, who occupies a special place in their hearts.

    God went on to tell me that soon, very soon, he will be calling the young lad to be with him in heaven. Though the sorrow in Tim's home will be overwhelming, that is what must be.

    But God, I asked, is there nothing that can be done? Nothing that can be done to save the tiny little one known as Tim? He only shook his head no. At that point I dropped to my knees, and begged God to reconsider. "Give him one more Christmas dinner with the family that loves him so. One more plump Christmas goose, and a bowl of the pudding that always brings a smile to his ever so young face. Please God please."

    It was then that God spoke, saying: "Go out and find the most worthless human being on the face of the earth. A man who has never done good. A man who has brought shame upon himself, and misery to others. Find this pathetic soul, and have him offer himself up in Tim's place, and I will spare the lad."

    My search for such a disreputable human being has come to an end. And you are clearly the only person on earth who can save tiny Tim's live - a life that means so much to so many. A life worth saving.

    I've checked with the Almighty, and the particulars of how you off yourself to save Tim are not important. The important thing is that you do so before sunset Saturday. Save Tim, bring joy to the world. Do the right thing - kill yourself.
  5. From October 25, 2003 :

    The Daily Skirt - EXTRA

    Tiny Tim, beloved son of Mr. and Mrs. Bob Crachet of London, passed away tonight. The frail youth, who got about best he could on a crutch, died suddenly just as the sun set. Family members had prayed to the Almighty that the boy might make it through the Holiday Season that he so loved, and believed that God was going to answer their prayers. As of the time of publication, they were without an answer as to why God had forsaken them.

    Tears and sorrow predominate at the humble home tonight, where a lone now unused crutch leans against the wall, next to the fireplace. Over and over again the lad's father cries aloud: "Why God, why must it have been my boy? Was there not someone less worthy who could have gone in his place?"

    On the other side of the globe, sat a man eating a can of dog food adorned with fried onions - burping and farting the whole time - apparently oblivious to the tragedy in London this eve. There are some who say that he could have saved Tiny Tim, but didn't. Later tonight this uncaring boor will put on a powder blue jump suit purchased back in 1976, go off to one of Sin City's seedier casinos, trying to find a crooked dealer, and a two dollar whore. He will return home near dawn, and another day will come and go as though nothing happened.

    But the world will be poorer one child - a boy so filled with love and good spirit - and a grief stricken father will be staring at the last embers burning away in the hearth, not far from the now abandoned tiny crutch.
  6. From October 26, 2003 :

    I've just returned
    My wife and I have just returned from perhaps the saddest event we have ever attended - Tiny Tim's viewing. The frail lifeless body that only yesterday was alive and so full of hope, lay motionless in the hand-crafted pine box. Not far away, seemingly keeping vigil, stood the lad's tiny crutch. Leaning, forever abandoned, against the wall next to the fireplace.

    And there, next to the hearth, was the boys stool. The stool he would sit on during bitterly cold nights in the modest home, next to his mother as she would knit. "Tell me mummy that I will be better one day, and be able to run and play with the other children?", he would ask.

    I spoke with Tim's parents, and inquired how the boy's final moment came about. They told me that in the late afternoon, Tim hobbled over to the window, and stood looking out for the longest time. They said that his spirits, always high, had seemed even higher these past few days. There was a touch of color in his cheeks. He spoke with great enthusiasm of the upcoming Holidays - the plump roast goose, and of course his favorite, the Christmas Pudding. And so he was standing at the window, and suddenly said: "Look mummy, look daddy, the sun is setting!". With those words, the boy dropped dead.

    Of course everyone from the neighborhood was there, even the dead boy's father's employer. A rumor circulated in the crowd that God had agreed to spare the lad if only some worthless oaf would exchange his pitiful life for the lad who so loved living. The crowd grew angrier and angrier as word spread of the deal.

    The men of London's poor side took up pitchforks and torches, their numbers grew to some 10,000 strong - each vowing to make the bastard who did this to Tim pay, and pay dearly. Disemboweling seemed to be the favorite course of action once the angry mob caught the scoundrel. Others spoke of boiling him in oil.

    "Where can we find the worthless pile of putrid shit?" the crowd asked in unison. I held my council - but how much longer can I maintain my silence?

    I imagine that it was just about that time that you came stumbling home - pockets turned inside out from searching for your last nickel. Head bruised from where the security guards hit you as you were ejected from the third rate downtown casino. And now, as you sit there in your underwear, eating breakfast from a can of dog food reading this, do you feel no shame? No remorse? No guilt?

    What's that? For a second, a fleeting second I thought I heard an act of contrition coming from you - apparently I am wrong, it was but another fart.
  7. Bob Lassiter (September 30, 1945 - October 13, 2006).

    Exactly 15 years since you left us. I still get a good chuckle reading through your old threads, PM's and emails. Hope they're treating you well.