for 13 September 2000. Updated every WEEKDAY.

Tim Cavanaugh
Special Guest Editor

Terry Colon
Art Director

Heather Havrilesky
Senior Editor

Phillip Bailey
Production Editor

Joey Anuff
Publisher

great filler!

I think the Greeks meant: "examining Life" in all it's physical and psychic and spiritual manifestations as opposed to one's own navel.

Andre Herzegovitch <andreherz@bio-media.com>

I think they were talking about marine biology, actually. Those Greeks just loved their parameciums!

Polly

Dear Polly;

Your column is usually like razor sharp coroners knife slicing deep into the swollen, putrescent illusions we all maintain about our self-images but Filler 9.6.00 was superlative. I wish that there was a way to have it bronzed.

Thanks,

Brandon Pierce
<bpierce@perryballard.com>

PS: I am open to the marriage thing if you're interested in discussing it. I'm flat broke, terminally angst-ridden, still live with my parents and I've never been to therapy, but I think we could make it work after years of expensive couples therapy.

I'm not sure if the words "putrescent" and "I wish I could have it bronzed" should be so close together in your message, let alone in your mind. But then, you're flat broke and terminally angst-ridden, which is enough for me. You may not know it, but these are the main criteria I use in selecting friends.

Ah, yes. I just sit around, idly choosing between hundreds of potential friends - that is, when I'm not eating raw Ahi tuna off the tanned, muscular buttocks of my brawny man-servants.

That actually sounds disgusting. Look what you made me do. This is all your fault.

My knife needs sharpening.

Polly

Dear Polly Esther,

We may be living similar lives somehow. It's weird how your Fillers seem like personal humor just for me.

Sometimes I even laugh out loud in my cube.

Thanks.

Beth Gilbert
<bgilbert@studiodirect.com>

PS.I too, dislike those cloying, uncomfortable silences.

We're living similar lives? Really? So, you also find it inconvenient when the taste of the Ahi tuna you're sampling off the rock-hard glutes of your man-servant becomes slightly tainted by the oils he uses to keep his body shined to a high gloss?

No? Well, then our lives aren't very similar at all, are they?

Why do people always write to me telling me about how Filler made them laugh outloud in their cubes? Why can't someone, every now and then, write something like, "Filler made me laugh so loud that my secretary and several of my more obsequious underlings peered through the door of my massive corner office to get in on the joke, with the obvious hopes of winning my favor ..." or "Filler made laugh so loud that Donatella spilled her glass of Zin all over my white mink rug, but Elton said it looked way better that way anyway, and then he asked me, when are you gonna come down? When are you going to land? And I thought, I should have stayed on the farm, I should have listened to my old man."

I could go on like this forever. Look what you made me do. This is all your fault.

My cattle prod needs recharging.

Polly

Hey,

That goddam Steve gets more cameos and shit than I do. I hate him.

Cisco
<fdv@hotbot.com>

Don't hate Steve just because he's beautiful. And he is beautiful, too. He just lost about 20 or 30 pounds, all from doing Tae Bo and thinking positively for once in his life. It's actually sort of annoying, Steve thinking positively. I mean, it's out of character. It's off-message. He'd better get back to the party line before you start taking up his real estate in Filler.

You're gonna have to give me a little more to work with, though, Cisco. You gotta have personality to get cameos and shit. What do you think this is, the Big Brother house?

My piranha tank needs cleaning.

Polly

Dear Polly,

I am having trouble motivating myself to be a productive, energetic citizen. Yet, while I am reading Filler, my ennui is magically lifted away.

Is there any chance that you can stream Filler directly into my brain, 24 hours a day?

Thanks for your help,

Craig Becker
<cbecker@apple.com>

I'm having trouble motivating myself to be a productive, energetic citizen, too. You know why? Because my motherfucking Powerbook G3 keeps crashing.

I doubt I'll be able to stream Filler directly into your brain anytime soon, given the fact that I can't even open Netscape and Eudora at the same time.

Oh, don't talk to me about RAM. I have more RAM than Dodge.

Actually, a 24-hour feed of Filler would be good. You could see what Polly and Joey did in those other moments that didn't make the final cut for the show. You know, Polly making little sculptures out of the lint from Joey's sweater, and Joey drinking Brandy Alexanders until he's doing the Macarena in his birthday suit. That's actually the kind of crap Joey does when the cameras aren't on. I'm not kidding.

Just think of the magnitude of lies I could spread, magically lifting away all that waxy ennui build-up, if your stupid company would just send me a new computer. And a handy little midget, to fix it. One with a cute little tool kit filled with midget-sized tools. And a box, with sandwiches in it, because, you know, I shouldn't have to feed the midget. And a man servant, with rock-solid butt cheeks, and years of experience as a Sushi Chef, and skin that keeps a natural gossamer glow without the use of artificial greasing agents.

Think different already, Craig.

My morning star that needs a coat of black Rustoleum.

Polly

Dear 40th Street Black,

What a bravura take on breakfast! I recognized your inimitable style even before I got to the end of the column. Right now, my wife is visiting her family in Germany, but I'm going to save this for her delectation when she returns next week. Have a great day!

Best wishes,

Dave Clayton
<daveclayton@worldnet.att.net>

Thanks, Dave. I appreciate your note. "Recognized your inimitable style" is a much, much nicer way of saying "I counted 27 semi-colons by Terry's third illustration." Hope your wife returns soon and safely, although the mind reels thinking of what kind of homecooked breakfasts she may be enjoying in Germany.

Best,

40th Street Black

Dear 40th Street Black,