for 19 May 1999. Updated every WEEKDAY.

Polly,

Congratulations on three
years of barbs, jabs, binge
drinking, and delightfully
cruel humor. I've been a
faithful reader for just a
few short months, but I feel I
know you already, mostly
because I spend every night
outside your window, drinking
coffee while you and the
rabbit hit the pipe. But I
digress.

When we reach such obvious
milestones in our lives as
third anniversaries, we not
only pause to reflect but
also to look ahead. What do
the next three years hold in
store for Filler? Is there a
romantic interest in the
works? Will the cops finally
catch up with you for the
bloody pig's heart you mailed
to that traffic court judge?
When are you and Terry going
to stop bickering and realize
how much you two kooky kids
love each other? The
anticipation hurts so good.

Fortunate that my gigantic
penis gives me the confidence
to send you this letter,

Ty Webb

Did you like it when I ashed
into your coffee the other
night? The rabbit and I got a
big kick out of that one.

It's hard, er, uh, difficult
to say what the future holds.
But with fans like you, who
needs friends? Ah-ha-ha.

Ahem.

Polly

Dear Polly,

Filler is my favoritest
e-feature. I can't wait until
they make it into a movie so
I can stand in line for
months beforehand dressed
like you. Whenever I read
Filler, I am free from the
noise of the Information Age
for a few precious moments,
bathed in a claw-footed tub
of postmodern hip-poseur
spite.

Sometimes I even smirk
visibly for a second before
my eyes revert to their usual
flat affect. That frightens
the guards even more.

Penitentially yours,
Dan Winter #6212123
Joliet, Illinois

I like the image of you
sweating in line in a pastel
Charlie Brown sweater,
talking to the slightly
turgid, sweaty, goateed MIS
dude behind you about
postmodern hip this and
postmodern hip that in
Filler. It's nice that most
of my readers are so much
smarter than I am that they
think they can apply the
tools of New Criticism to
my body of work, thus
rendering it far more
meaningful than it was ever
meant to be.

Wow. Try applying a little
Freud to that last
sentence. Now I feel all
dirty and soiled.

But I like the spite in you.

Grouching towards Bethlehem,

Polly

Subject: Sniffle-up-a-bus

Snort, snuck, honk ...

Gosh, your third anniversary
column really made me cry!
I'm so touched by your
wonderful openness. It pried
open my own shell of
self-protectiveness and
defensive hostility to the
point where now I'm nothing
but a sodden puddle of wet
cotton and sticklike limbs.
It feels so real, so human,
so alive!

And now I fear that any more
would cause my little mental
house of cards to collapse
like a cheap travel umbrella.
Damn you, you've forced me to
reconfigure my
rationalization schemata. I
had all these carefully
chosen belief systems and
you've - sniff - you've just
eroded them all to the point
at which even I can no longer
suspend my disbelief!

Touched, bewildered, and
irritated,

Michael the Chider
<MCHIDER@intra.nida.nih.gov>

PS After this little episode
dries up like some Serengeti
watering hole during the dry
season, I'd like to see a
little more mendacious
bodaciousness, some kicks in
the shins to go along with
the eye gouging and the
Curly shuffle. Hell, I'd
even throw in some of these
free electrolysis coupons I
got with my Frequent
Bodywaxer club membership.

Sticklike limbs? You pussy.
Go get some limbs already.

And who chooses their belief
systems carefully anymore?
Don't be so old-fashioned.

Go Buddha, Go Buddha, Go
Buddha!

Polly

Hello.

If I praise your work, I'll
be maligned.

If I insult it, I'll be much
maligned.

If I tell you how wonderful I
am, I'll get shot down.

If I extend to you the same
kind of conscious
self-deprecation you exude
that makes us all feel so
good, you'll make fun of me
for being a pathetic loser.

Which, of course, I am.

I can't win! Give me a job.

Love,

Kittka
<sly@vivisect.org>

You're hired.

Just kidding. Loser.

Still more pathetic than
thou, trust me,

Polly

Polly,

I have seen you evolve and
grow before my very eyes. I
remember when you were the
new girl.

You know, you kind of look like
Samantha on Bewitched in the
early years.

Keep it up!

Eric Delisle
<edelisle@ulead.de>

More like Veronica on
Veronica's Closet. That's the
Kirstie Alley character with
the lame blonde streaks in
her hair. But I'm not big
like that, no matter how bent
Terry is on making it look
like I do nothing but sit
around watching talk TV and
scarfing down Gingeroos all
day.

I do have magical powers,
though, which, unlike
Samantha, I use to advance
the forces of evil.

Hello Cookie!

Polly

Subject: HAPPY FILLERVERSARY!

Hi Polly,

I'm a longtime fan, but I've
always felt too intimidated
by your vast intelligence and
rapierlike wit to write.
Empowered by your invitation
to say
hello/troubles/fuckoff, I can
finally fulfill my wildest
email fantasies and ask you
the burning question: Does
your face really come
straight out of your neck
like that? Wow!

Dustbot Robot
<burnt@the.satanic.org>

Thanks for saying hello.

Your Fuck You custard pie is
in the mail.

Polly

What the fuck is with all the
white Rastafarianism around
here? I live in the mountains
of Vermont - the back hills
and dirt roads. Theres no reason
to piss off Mommy and Daddy
here. All of a sudden I've got
100 white Rastafarians in my
hood. Hey, I can dig Zionism
(the goal is to return to the
Palestinian homeland - so GO
already), I can dig being
Ethiopian (they're very dark
skinned, right?), I can dig
vegetarians (more meat for
me) but when a middle-class
white kid refuses to bathe
for five years, never combs
his hair, smells like rotten
patchouli, drives a smoking
van that burns oil so he can
save the planet, AND the
little fucker is gettin'
laid, I HAVE SOME SERIOUS
QUESTIONS!!!

Polly, Polly, Polly, what
does young pussy see in a guy
who can't kill his crabs
because, actually, like, it
wouldn't be kind, man? And
what is with people saying
"actually" all the fucking
time? It's like that word
replaced "duh" or "umm," and
people use it because the
verbal pause having four
syllibals (pardun the
spellin') sounds SOOO much
more intellectual, unless you
have to hear it a thousand
times a day. Now that I have
heightened your awareness of
it, it should drive you nuts
too.

Later, kid.

Sittin' on the porch with a
shotgun, waitin' for those
hippie fucks to try to sneak
on to my property to plant
wacky tobaccy,

Little Jimmy Melonballer
<melonbal@together.net>

I get the best mail in the
Suck mailbag, week after
week, no doubt about it.

Eat your hearts out, Ambrose
and Bartel! Fucking jerks.

Polly

Subject: Brownie Balls

Hi Polly,
Thanks for making hump day a
happy day! I find your
writing empowering and
inspiring. I am also a
violent bitch obsessed with
food and alcohol.

Last weekend, my best friend
came over with her boyfriend
for dinner and drinks. I made
double chocolate brownies
with chocolate chips for
dessert, with a side of
Godiva chocolate raspberry
truffle ice cream. My friend
was so looped from the
chocolate and beer that she
shared a shocking story
with the group.

She said when she was a
little girl she would take
freshly made brownies and
scrape off the crusty part.
She would then take the
remainder and roll it into a
ball that she would stick in
a plastic sandwich bag. She
longingly recalled how she
would nibble on her brownie
ball throughout the day. She
highly recommended this
delicacy, but I find it
disturbing. I mean, I drink
beer like water and sneak
truffles in between, but
nibbling on a brownie
ball? Shouldn't we draw
the line somewhere?

Erika Olson
<oerikalynn@hotmail.com>

Mushing food into a ball and
eating it throughout the day
is never OK, and coming out
of the closet with a history
of same is also not OK. As
in, I'm OK, you're not OK.

We do have to draw the line
somewhere, Erika. I'm
counting on you.

Polly

You remind me of my love,
long gone and gone for much
longer on a business trip to
Europe, Asia, the
Subcontinent, and points in
between. Your gentle rage
consoles me.

Ahhh, the comfort of Filler.

Thank you,

Doug Broussard
<vought@best.com>

You mean the tall blond guy
with the canister of whipped
cream? He's here with me.
He's been here for months
now. We've been turning on
the fan to simulate a bad
international phone
connection, and I've been
faking French and German and
Mandarin dialects to create
authentic foreign crowd
noises. Your "love" or
whatever is massaging my feet
as we speak, probably mere
blocks away from you. Hold
on.... What's that,
sugarlumps? Oh. He says to
tell you he was wrong, he's
not gay after all.

Say goodbye to comfortably
numb, buddy!

Enraged, but not gently,

Polly

Polly,

I think you're keen. I'm glad
you've made it to your third
anniversary, and although
I've never read anything
you've written I'm sure it
has all been pure gold. Like,
remember that one Filler
where you and that guy are
talking, and then all of a
sudden there's a pause, and
then you talk some more? Boy,
that must have been a good
one. Of course, my knowledge
of that particular Filler is
secondhand, as I heard some
homeless guy with a laptop
shouting and cursing about it
between his shrill cries for
"you evil bastards" to turn
off "this fucking thing
in my head."

Anyway, kudos to you. Good
luck on future endeavors, and
by the way, I'm into the
whole "dirty-mouthed goddess"
thing, and I've got a really
big penis (technically, it's
my boss) that I think you
might like. Or hate. Kinda
the same thing.

Ciao.

<DareThis@aol.com>

Penis? Dirty mouth? You need
a "goddess" who's priced to
move fast, friend. Consult
with your boss, and check out
the yellow pages under
"escorts."

Tell that homeless guy we
can't turn off the thing in
his head just yet. He's doing
too much good PR work for us
at this point.

Pausing for effect,

Polly

There are only two reasons
why I get out of bed on
Wednesday:

1) to read Filler
2) because
I have to "go" really really
badly.

Jake Denley
<denley@nortelnetworks.com>

"Go"? Where, exactly, do you
have to "go"?

I can't get out of bed on
Wednesdays because the only
reason I can think of to get
out of bed is:

1) to read pathetic letters
from readers like you.

Just kidding. I love getting
mail. Why else would I ask
for it all the time? It's
sick how much I like it,
in fact. My love hasn't
faded after three years,
either, and the mail just
keeps getting better -
your particular letter
notwithstanding.

Polly

I feel I was touched in a
place where I did not want to
be touched.

Randy Vickers
<randy@mythbelievers.com>

Exactly the effect I was
looking for.

Probing every pie,

Polly

I used to think I had a crush
on you, so I started dating a
girl who reminds me of you:
bitter, sarcastic, angry.
We're miserable.

Much love,

David Fraser
<frasda2@usfca.edu>

Accept no substitute,
dumbass.

Actually, I can assure you,
I'm just as miserable if not
more miserable than you, and
I'd probably do an even
better job of making you
deeply unhappy.

Consider yourself blessed.

Polly

The Shit

Left for Dead in Malaysia, Neil Hamburger, Drag City, 1999 The Pyrotechnic Insanitarium: American Culture on the Brink, Mark Dery, Grove/Atlantic, 1999 Crazy from the Heat, David Lee Roth, Hyperion, 1998 Keep It Like a Secret, Built to Spill, WEA/Warner Brothers, 1999 Abbott's Pizza Company, near the corner of Abbott-Kinney and California, Venice Beach, Los Angeles (delivery hours limited) Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Pink Floyd, CD remaster, EMI 1994 Motorhead, CD remasters, all Det Som Engang Var, Burzum, Misanthropy, 1998 Bicentennial Capitol Mall State Park, Nashville, Tennessee A History of the Modern Fact, Mary Poovey, University of Chicago Press, 1998 V., Thomas Pynchon, HarperCollins Publishers, 1999 The Coffee Mill, Emeq Refaim, Jerusalem, Israel The Salesman and Bernadette, Vic Chesnutt, Capricorn Records, 1998 Good Morning Spider, Sparklehorse, Cema/Capitol, 1999 Third Floor, Anderson Building, Los Angeles County Museum of Art