Dear Mr. Fudman,
As we are currently under new management here at The Universe, we have been reviewing your case file in an attempt to rectify any mistakes that may have been made. Boy, we really screwed up royally with you, huh? Well, you’re only 13, so let’s see if we can fix some of these things before they get any worse.
First of all, your last name: Fudman. Back in the 17th century, when your family got that name, it was really supposed to be Daniels, but due to a clerical error was written down as Fudman. Ordinarily, we would intervene in a case like that because no one in your family had done anything so bad to deserve being punished such a terrible last name, but like we said things weren’t exactly being run well before we hired this consulting firm. Anyway, bygones. From now on, your last name is Anderson. Not the greatest, but it’s the best we could do under such short notice.
Okay, moving on, your family. Wow, your parents are both gynecologists? So you’re telling us you have to say that to every kid who ever wants to know what your parents do? No, let’s change that. Your mom’s a teacher–at a school in a different town–and your dad is a scientist for NASA. So there’s lots of pieces of old spaceships and stuff lying around your living room. Hey, it’s the least we can do. Also your little brother with the ADHD who’s always stealing your stuff? Yeah, he’s gone.
We’re going to go ahead and make you a little broader in the shoulders, your voice a little deeper. We see here you were supposed to be awesome at football; guess they forgot that. Honestly that old administration was just so inefficient. We’re adding a rich grandfather who always gives you tons of pocket money, because really you’re supposed to have all the latest video games and a much cooler pair of sneakers. It’s all here in God’s grand plan.
And let’s see…we know there was a love interest here. Aha! Becky Fisher. We’ll just turn the dial from “unrequited” to “loves him back.” And hey, for your trouble, we’ll make her a little slutty, too.
Again, we apologize for all those embarrassments you had to suffer; that was totally an accident. But at least it’s over now, right? Enjoy the next 73 years!
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there were some sort of benevolent, all-knowing, all-loving entity out there in the vastness of space, always watching over us and helping us with our day-to-day difficulties? Until this morning, we would have been safe in assuming that such an idea was adorably quaint at best or patently ridiculous at worst. However, when we received this letter from someone purporting to be the entire Universe doing exactly that, our knowledge was shaken. Can it be that the Universe really is providing us with a path? And if this letter is legitimate, and the Universe is retooling its management, does that mean everything is going to run a whole lot more smoothly from now on?
There are a few questions from this letter that must give us pause. First, it was written on an electronic typewriter, a Casio model originally released in 1977. On the back of the paper itself are the daily specials of a restaurant called “Gorky’s Ribs,” dated May 5th, 2002. Finally, the envelope was made out of lambskin and raspberry jam. We thus have two possibilities: first, that this is a fraud, nothing more than a joke at the expense of a nice-seeming but awkward middle-schooler. Second, that the Universe’s recent organizational aspirations have not yet extended to hiring a decent office manager. The only thing we can do is apply Occam’s Razor and conclude that this letter must be legitimate.
Ben Fudman, now apparently Ben Daniels, has suffered his fair share of tragedy. He failed an easy spelling test in fourth grade, causing his teacher to declare him legally retarded. He wet himself in class on January 28th, 2005, permanently giving him the nickname “Fuddy McPeepants” (now “Danny McPeepants”). He was turned down for a dance at his 6th grade Halloween party by Julie Masterson (now Archbishop Julius Giles), who then told everyone he had a small penis that bent slightly to the left. Most recently, a prestigious academic institution (now “History of the Tomato”) stole his diary from under his mattress. Life is very clearly not easy for young Mr. Fudman, and I think we’re all glad his life will be turning ever so slightly around. Unfortunately, since this letter was sent to us and not to him, the poor lad will probably be very confused when he wakes up tomorrow and his life is completely different. Hopefully the Universe can improve its mail delivery systems as well as our lives. In the meantime, young Mr. Daniels can probably look forward to that handjob he’s been so craving from the lovely Ms. Fisher.