All jokes about my popularity aside, I really don't have any friends dumb enough to pass this crap along. Plenty of IT people, sure, but plenty of technophobes, even female technophobes, in college no less, don't pass this crap onto me.

I'm proud of my friends.

And now, everyone's favorite, the Burlap Sack boy. First few times I read this I laughed so hard I cried. Very on topic. Unedited, due to it's literary qualities:

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I am a very sick boy little boy. My mother is typing this for me, because I can't. She is crying. (Don't cry, Mommy!) Mommy is always sad, but she says it's not my fault. I asked her if it was God's fault, but she didn't answer, and only started crying harder, so I don't ask her that anymore.

The reason she is so sad is that I'm so sick. I was born without a body. It doesn't hurt, except when I go to sleep. The doctors gave me an artificial body. My body is a burlap bag filled with leaves. The doctors said that was the best they could do on account of us havin' no money or insurance. I would like to have a body transplant, but we need more money.

Mommy doesn't work because she said employers don't hire crying people. I said, "Don't cry, Mommy," and she hugged my burlap body. Mommy always gives me hugs, even though she's allergic to burlap, and it chafes her real bad. I hope you will help me.

You can help me if you forward this e-mail. Dr. Van Nostrem from the clinic said if you foward this e-mail then Bill Gates will team up with AOL and do a survey with NASA. Then the astronauts will collect prayers from school children all over America and take them up to space so that the angels can hear them better. Then they will go to the Pope, and he will take up a collection in church and send the money to the doctors. The doctors could help me get better then. Maybe one day I will be able to play baseball. Or maybe just use my lungs and heart, when the doctors make them. The doctors said that every time you forward this letter, the astronauts can take another prayer to the angels.

Please help me. Mommy is so sad, and I want a body. I don't want my leaves to rot before I turn 10. If you don't forward this e-mail, that's OK. Mommy says you're a mean heartless shiathead who doesn't care about a poor little boy with only a head. She says that, if you don't stew in the raw pit of your own guilt-ridden stomach, she hopes you die a long slow horrible death so you can burn forever in the tar pits of hell. What kind of goddamned person are you that you can't take five farking minutes to forward this to all your friends so that they can feel guilt and shame for the rest of their day, and then maybe help a poor, bodiless nine-year-old boy?

Please help me. This really sucks. I try to be happy but it's hard. I wish I had a puppy. I wish I could hold a puppy. One time I had a puppy but he ate my leaves.

Thank You.

The boy with just a head. And a burlap sack for a body.
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