Laughing Matters: The One About Fan Mail, Part 1

By Ryan G. Van Cleave

Something regular folk might not appreciate about having a Pulitzer-prize-winning humor column is the volume of fan mail one receives. Oodles! Trunkfuls! Oceans of it!

Or so Dave Barry said in a video I watched on YouTube. Well, half of it, anyway.

To my utter surprise, it turns out that my humor dealio here also receives fan mail. And since this month’s exposé on the secret Illuminati agenda of squirrels didn’t quite pan out (I assure you, Great Squirrel Overlord, I’m following your orders to cease and desist to the letter!), it’s time for the first installment of “Ryan Responding to Fan Mail.” Because, well, letters!

Letter One

Hey, stop parking on my lawn. Jerk!

—“Bev”

If I read a little bit between the lines here, it’s clear that what you’re getting at is a version of the question all writers get from time to time. Heck, I heard Stephen King gets this three times per interview. My response? As a writer, I get my ideas from a combination of sources:

1—marathon past-midnight Dungeons & Dragons sessions with my middle-school besties

2—penguin séances

3—classified ads from the future

Thanks for asking, Bev!

Letter Two

I heard that you taught a humor class at Ringling College.
How’d that happen? You’re about as amusing as a parking ticket.

—“Slappy”

My first instinct here is to figure out who you are, sleuth out your home address, and mail you a Chupacabra. (In the biz, this is what’s known as “dark humor” for you play-at-home fans.) But my inner Smurf child wants me to put my blue chin up, smile super big, and mail you a Chupacabra. (Coming back to a previous joke for yet another laugh is a technique called “the callback.”)

What can I say? I’m still learning about humor just like all of us. But is it just me, or are Chupacabras REALLY inherently funny? Like farts, people riding Segways, and cats dressed like humans?

Thanks for the letter, Slappy!

Letter Three

First!

—“Jim”

Alas, Jim, you’re not the first to fire off fan mail. You’re third. But the effort is much appreciated. For that, I offer this meager reward.

What’s the difference between having a latte and being late?

Whether or not you have time for t.

Better luck next time, Jim!

Letter Four

Hey, RVC! My stepdad is a big-time media guy in New York City,
and I think with the right bribe, I can get you booked
on The Today Show. Whaddya say?
FYI—I like Dom Perignon, really first-rate truffles, and Ferraris.

—“Lawrence”

What a kind offer, Larry! Thank you so much. I’ve never met your friend, Dom, and I can’t say that I’m all that much into breakfast foods (all that syrup!). And Ferraris? Is that the new triple-pepperoni option at Blaze Pizza? If so, count me in! Slices all around! (Well, for you and me only. I’ve only got a single 10% off coupon).

I’ll await your media maven stepfather’s call.

Letter Five

You seem really obsessed with cryptozoology.
What’s the dealio? Are you part Sasquatch or something?

—“Patrice”

Yes.

Letter Six

What’s the most idiotic and useless purchase you’ve ever made?

—“Bob”

That’s a fine question, Bob. There are SO many possibilities to consider that I’ll have to crank up the think-o-meter to uncover the truth. While I’m doing that, I’ll share a crazy purchase-related thing I was totally complicit in. Remember back in 1994, there was the story about how Microsoft and Bill Gates were going to acquire the Roman Catholic Church in exchange for an unspecified number of shares of Microsoft common stock?

That was my fault. I forwarded that email like twenty times.

As for my own weird-wacky purchase? I think I paid six bucks for a half-eaten Twinkie once. It was after football practice, and I was really, REALLY hungry. You might think I totally overpaid, but to be fair—I talked my brother down from ten bucks.

If you’d like to be part of the fun that’s a future “Ryan Responding to Fan Mail” episode, go ahead and zip away your notes to Spam@SceneSarasota.com. Better yet, just handwrite it on a sheet of onionskin paper, seal it in a 9×11 manila envelope, then stick it to your garage door with a bloody steak knife. I’ll come by and pick it up myself. Or I’ll send my pet Chupacabra to do it.