New Jersey Fried His Brain!

I got an e-mail from my friend, Jason, the other day. Jason and I went to college together, then we graduated together, then we met as often as possible to drink together. About a year ago, Jason moved to New Jersey, where his already strained psyche was shattered into thousands of pieces. Now, whenever I hear from him, this is the type of thing I get:

Such thoughts make me feel dirty, not the good kind of "Robin Hood and Maid Marian romping around in the forest" dirty. Not even the "I'm stuck out here in the middle of nowhere because I've been chased for three straight days by an axe-wielding psychopath, but at least I have this old bottle of hobo booze to keep me company" kind of dirty. That would be a very clear step up from my current state. No, I feel "yeah, sure, its' been more than fifteen years and many of the fans have been loyal even though we made those Ewok cartoons, but they won't really mind if we just slap a storyline together because they will be amazed with spectacular effects and a completely computerized character called JarJar Binks" dirty.

As if this was not enough to concern me, later in the e-mail he says:

Did you know that only three people are selling their souls on E-bay right now?! I guess the buyers market has finally collapsed. Screwtape must be very upset.

If you're in Jersey, and you see a young man from Ohio dead-drunk, yelling about Ragnarok, or the Apocolypse, or Judgement Day, and taking off his clothes in the middle of the street, send me an e-mail to reassure me that he hasn't changed.