I don't know where the hell I came up with my ideas, but it is definately an odd email.
Subject: Your Attention, Mr. Thompson
Recently I saw my great-grand son playing a game called FlatOut, and in this game you launch your driver through the windsheild of your car to earn points in such games as the highjump, the longjump, and even bowling. Suddenly, I have the urge to install an ejection seat in my 1925 T-Model Ford and drive up to speeds as fast as forty five miles per hour and lauch myself up to ninety feet in the air. But, unless you can stop our children from playing such an abomination of what the youngsters call "video games". I remember back in my day all we could play is stickball and had curly moustaches that covered up at least thirty percent of our faces. No sir, there was no violence at all, but I do recall my mother telling me of a Ripper fellow killing prostitues in the mid 1800s (which she just happened to be one, thus I was born). Oh well, I guess children only do what they see, since they are corrupted by the media. Groups like Run DMC and M.C. Hammer, it's only a matter of time before these hoodlums make a profit from their rap flap jibbity jap or whatever it is called. Well, sorry for taking up your time, but I think you're doing a great job. I haven't had any outside communication for a while and I had my computer especially put here in the hospital for me. I'm sorry to say, but I have only a week to live. I have syphillis and this is the last letter I can write. So long Mr.Thompson, I hope you complete your mission.