Dear Madame Mercedes,

My name is Trent. Trenton Chaynes, to be exact. I enjoy looking at the color blue and listening to the wind whistle through the leaves of pine trees. Well, that last thing isn't quite true, but I was told to type it. "By who," you ask? Well, that doesn't matter. Anyway, my web site is called "They're A Million." It has such innovative things as Kittiemon, The Kittiepuff Girls, and two (count them, TWO) dancing bananas. The dancing bananas are my favorite part of the entire site. You visited my site earlier in the day and wrote some kind things in my guestbook. I just wanted to drop a line and say "thank you." As I'm typing this, there's a VH1 movie on the creation of The Monkees. I'm typing this during the commercials and the boring parts. So if this e-mail gets incoherent and off topic, it's not because I've forgotten what I wanted to say, it's because "incoherent and off topic" is my middle name. Trenton Incoherent And Off Topic Chaynes.

Yes, indeed, hip drummin' momma, it made my day to read your entry in my guestbook. There was also an all-day-long marathon of The Monkees television show. So today kicked much ass. Oh, yes, so much ass has been kicked. To celebrate, I watched the bananas dance. For hours. They sure can swing! Boogie down, my fruity comrades! And may you remain free from those damn dirty apes that I saw in a movie last night. They were all walking around like humans and talking, but they were apes! It made no sense to me. I mean, if anything is going to mutate and become human-like it would be the cockroaches. The monkeys would remain stupid, poo-flingin', flea-eatin', dancing-banana-slaughterin' tufts of comedy. After all, who can resist watching a movie where monkeys "talk" and out-smart the local police department? I know I can't. Unless the movie involves a cameo by Pauly Shore. In which case I'd throw things, shave all my body hair, and dance naked down the streets of Seattle while listening to all of Neil Diamond's greatest hits. Yep: ALL of them. At once. I'd use micro-bionic-nuclear-stealth technology to combine every song into a single fraction of a second. Then I'd put it on repeat and dance. Dance! DANCE!

Oh, and before I forget: Thank you ever-so-much for taking the time to sign my guestbook.

You know what? I want to thank you for giving us The Kids in the Hall. I know you, personally, had nothing to do with the show. But since you're Canadian I want to thank you in a general sense. Sure, it's a dumb thing to do, but since Canadians aren't really human I'm positive you won't mind too much. Now, I just need to find a Brit to thank for Monty Python's Flying Circus and I'll be all set. I found one at a restuarant once and tried to thank him. He got real angry. Someone later told me they don't appreciate being called "Duke Limey with the funny teeth." But that same person also told me Star Wars: The Phantom Menace was the greatest episode of the Star Wars trilogy to date. So, naturally, I now dismiss everything he tells me. Unless it has to do with David Bowie trivia. He can recite the guy's life backwards and fowwards. It boggles the mind. Well, if you're not a David Bowie fan then it doesn't matter. Which is ironic that I mention that since he's not a Kittie fan and never cares when I talk about you. You being the general term for Kittie, that is. I talk about you, in the singular, often but most of the time I talk about the entire group. It's really not as confusing as I make it out to be. Honest. But I'm trying to type something besides "whenever I mention you, in the singular, it's always something along the lines of 'uh huh huh huh huh, mercedes gets naked, huh huh huh' in a bad Beavis and Butthead voice." See, that would be downright rude of me. And, being the very paragon of politeness, I try to stay away from the mentioning of any and all naughty bits. Except when it comes to Jewel's breasts. But only because she wrote a poem about them, I assure you.

Ah, nutbunnies! I just saw a commercial that said there's going to be a brand new episode of the Powerpuff Girls this Friday. But you're playing a show this Friday that I have to go to. The record function on my vcr is broken, too. Ah, dilemma of dilemmas! Hey, do you think you could do the show really, really quickly so I can be home in time? I'd appreciate it. I'd be your friend. And I wouldn't write any more satirical things about you on my web site. Well, uh, I'd cut back on it, anyway.

It's times like these that I wish cloning were legal. I'd clone myself and be able to enjoy both things. The only problem would be in deciding which one of me would do what. Both of me would want to do one thing. I'm sure of it. Then I'd engage myself in a life-or-death battle. After successfully killing myself, I'd then have to go through the hassle of making another clone. But then that clone would make the same problem arise and I'd have to fight, kill, and clone myself all over again. It will be a large cycle of confusion. By the time I have it figured out, the world will be a barren wasteland filled with nothing but the decaying corpses of my clones. My body parts would be used by the unlucky survivors for clothing, houses, and currency. Imagine trading my fingernails for my kidney to feed your family?!?! And I shudder to think what automobiles would be made of. Why, you'd be using several of my heads for your drums! And my legs for your drumsticks! Good heavens. I'll have to go back in time and stop myself from cloning me! But to do that, I'd have to engage myself in a life-or-death battle! And I know that my past self would win since my future self would be weak with hunger. After all, a person can't eat themselves. It's not proper. So my past self would realize too late that I shouldn't have cloned myself! And then my past self would have to go back in time to my battle my pre-past self! Another confusing cycle!!! Well, I blame you! If you weren't in such a good band none of this would have happened/would be happening/will happen.

Well, in that case, I'm going to end this e-mail right here. No, no, on second thought I'll end it . . . here. No, wait, on third thought, before I go I want to wish you good luck on the Ozzfest tour and everything else that you're doing that I don't know about. Much success and all that good stuff to you. And I'll send weird psychic hippy things to the universe so that you'll never get addicted to crack and sell your tour bus to support your habit.

20% polyester, 80% funk,
-Trent