An Open Letter To Richard Heene

Dear Rapscallion,

So there I was, mere moments away from setting my homemade submarine adrift in the Colorado River. I had my iPhone in hand, with a 9 and a 1 already punched in. The cat was safely stashed away at the home of a fellow Taco Johns employee—I had literally nothing to worry about as I prepared to shove the tiny vessel that had cost me $17,000 (welding lessons included) away from the shore line. My plan to send the media on the wildest of proverbial goose chases while simultanously smearing my delicious yolk all over America’s gullible, swine-like face was almost complete.

Then, for some reason, before I kicked my creation off and dialed in that last 1 to frantically explain that my little Woogums was potentially trapped in an air-tight vessel headed straight for the most dangerous stretch of rapids in Kremmling County, I decided to eat a bran muffin from the glove box of my 1971 Dodge Dart. As I sat in the driver’s seat and scarfed down my less-than-appetizing snack, I scanned to see what was going on in the world. What headline should greet me in a matter of seconds?


I almost choked to death on my incredibly dry muffin. The audacity! For the next twelve hours, I sat in my beloved Dart and watched the whole thing unfold. I couldn’t believe my eyes. When had you been in my house? When had you seen my elaborate blueprints? They boasted a littany of ideas, including some sort of helium-based dirigible, very much like the one Wolf Blitzer was currently drooling over.

I was flabbergasted. Clearly my Brinks home security system had failed me for the last time. And to use a child, Mr. Heene, a real human child, rather than a cat! Well sir, that was unprecedented.

I applaud your ingenuity, sir, but I scorn your face just the same. I am now remarkably in debt with absolutely nothing to show for it. There is no way my wife is coming back to me now. You are a foul trickster and I shall determine how you breached my inner sanctum if it’s the last thing I do. May you rot in the self-imposed prison of reality television you seek to dominate.

Yours in pain and humiliation,

J. Greene II

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