Dear Bob,
I've never cold emailed an overrated celebrity before, so bare with me.
I worked in hospice for 15 years and wrote a play about it which also tells the tale of my Grandparents, Matt and Ramona Spartz.
The other day I heard the Voice of God come over the loud speaker of my brain and it said, "Ask Bob Saget to produce your show. He's "here for you'"
Bob, you don't know me, but I'm writing to you to ask you to speak to me for 15 minutes about this. 30 minutes if you need to do it from the shitter off-camera.
I might need to.
This is my phone number. 347-886-2974
Thanks,
Taren
Here's the story of Matt and Ramona Spartz.
aka: MATT AND MEEK.
Here's a quick and dirty version of their story.
They were married in 1950 in rural South Dakota at age 25 and 20. (I'm slightly rounding to make the math easier for you cause I know you're a simp, I've seen your "body of work".)
They had a baby the following winter. Baby George.
When George was three weeks old, he got pneumonia.
It was February, there was a blizzard.
Cars couldn't get through the 3 feet of snow, so my grandfathers brother had to bring a horse and manure spreader to get them to the hospital.
My grandfather was holding George, feeling his labored breathing in-between little baby gasps.
And then he felt him die.
He didn't tell my grandmother.
He continued to hold her and let her hold on to the hope of George living.
He gave her that hope for an hour, which was the only gift he could possibly give in the worst moment of his life, and what he knew was about to be the worst night of hers.
Stay with me. The funny part is coming. :)
(Just kidding, this story is already piquing with hilarity.)
Here's the thing:
HE NEVER TOLD HER ABOUT GEORGE DYING IN THE WAGON.
I don't know why because he's been dead now for about 30 years.
But I had always assumed my grandmother knew the moment George died.
She didn't.
I found this out 10 years after my grandfather died.
I was sitting with my Grandmother at her dining room table.
I asked her about George and what happened that night.
She told me the story, but in her version, George died at the hospital an hour after they arrived.
SHE STILL BELIEVED THAT.
I confirmed it. "He died at the hospital then?"
"Yeah." she said. "We got there after about two hours ride and then Grandpa handed George to the nurses and they came back a little while later and said that he died."
"Whoa." I said, trying to square her version of the story with the version my Grandfather told me when I was 7.
"Yeah," Grandma said. "They said they did the best they could."
I suddenly realized that I was holding a secret. A sacred, unimaginable secret act of love from my Grandfather as a young man.
***** Bob, this story gets fucking better. Ready? *****
When I was 15, my grandfather got leukemia.
NO ONE talked about him being seriously close to dying, but we all knew. And he knew.
One day I was sitting alone with him in the living room. In his labored breathing he said to me, "Penny for your thoughts, Sis."
I was looking at a birds nest just outside the window. "I'm remembering when we used to watch the baby birds get fed by the momma."
He said, "Yup. I remember, too. I won't be seeing that again, you know."
FUCKKKKK!!!!! BOBBBB!!!
He TOLD me he was going to die. He knew no one else was talking about it. He wanted me to know.
He knew the moment George died and he wanted to give my Grandmother as much hope as he could.
He knew that HE was going to die and wanted to give me as much preparation as he could.
This man shouldered the burden of KNOWING his son was dead and chose to comfort his young bride for as long as he could.
This man knew that no one in the family would tell me outright that he was going die. So he let me know the best way he could.
ARE you crying on the floor in a fucked up ball yet? If you're not, please forgive yourself, you heartless bastard and enjoy this little moment I had with my Grandmother who is now 90.
I found a hole in my yard the other day and told Grandma about it.
She said, "Oh my. That could be someone's grave."
I said, "Well, I'm not sure about that."
She said, "Well, don't go falling in or it could be yours!" And then howled at her own joke.
Here's another Ramona moment to chew on.
My brother has a one year old and works as a social worker in a state hospital.
He said to me the other day, "I work with psychotics and psycopaths all day and it's easier than being at home with my one year old!"
When I told Grandma this she said, "Well, when they have that much energy, that's a good thing because then you know they're not sick."
I've never cold emailed an overrated celebrity before, so bare with me.
I worked in hospice for 15 years and wrote a play about it which also tells the tale of my Grandparents, Matt and Ramona Spartz.
The other day I heard the Voice of God come over the loud speaker of my brain and it said, "Ask Bob Saget to produce your show. He's "here for you'"
Bob, you don't know me, but I'm writing to you to ask you to speak to me for 15 minutes about this. 30 minutes if you need to do it from the shitter off-camera.
I might need to.
This is my phone number. 347-886-2974
Thanks,
Taren
Here's the story of Matt and Ramona Spartz.
aka: MATT AND MEEK.
Here's a quick and dirty version of their story.
They were married in 1950 in rural South Dakota at age 25 and 20. (I'm slightly rounding to make the math easier for you cause I know you're a simp, I've seen your "body of work".)
They had a baby the following winter. Baby George.
When George was three weeks old, he got pneumonia.
It was February, there was a blizzard.
Cars couldn't get through the 3 feet of snow, so my grandfathers brother had to bring a horse and manure spreader to get them to the hospital.
My grandfather was holding George, feeling his labored breathing in-between little baby gasps.
And then he felt him die.
He didn't tell my grandmother.
He continued to hold her and let her hold on to the hope of George living.
He gave her that hope for an hour, which was the only gift he could possibly give in the worst moment of his life, and what he knew was about to be the worst night of hers.
Stay with me. The funny part is coming. :)
(Just kidding, this story is already piquing with hilarity.)
Here's the thing:
HE NEVER TOLD HER ABOUT GEORGE DYING IN THE WAGON.
I don't know why because he's been dead now for about 30 years.
But I had always assumed my grandmother knew the moment George died.
She didn't.
I found this out 10 years after my grandfather died.
I was sitting with my Grandmother at her dining room table.
I asked her about George and what happened that night.
She told me the story, but in her version, George died at the hospital an hour after they arrived.
SHE STILL BELIEVED THAT.
I confirmed it. "He died at the hospital then?"
"Yeah." she said. "We got there after about two hours ride and then Grandpa handed George to the nurses and they came back a little while later and said that he died."
"Whoa." I said, trying to square her version of the story with the version my Grandfather told me when I was 7.
"Yeah," Grandma said. "They said they did the best they could."
I suddenly realized that I was holding a secret. A sacred, unimaginable secret act of love from my Grandfather as a young man.
***** Bob, this story gets fucking better. Ready? *****
When I was 15, my grandfather got leukemia.
NO ONE talked about him being seriously close to dying, but we all knew. And he knew.
One day I was sitting alone with him in the living room. In his labored breathing he said to me, "Penny for your thoughts, Sis."
I was looking at a birds nest just outside the window. "I'm remembering when we used to watch the baby birds get fed by the momma."
He said, "Yup. I remember, too. I won't be seeing that again, you know."
FUCKKKKK!!!!! BOBBBB!!!
He TOLD me he was going to die. He knew no one else was talking about it. He wanted me to know.
He knew the moment George died and he wanted to give my Grandmother as much hope as he could.
He knew that HE was going to die and wanted to give me as much preparation as he could.
This man shouldered the burden of KNOWING his son was dead and chose to comfort his young bride for as long as he could.
This man knew that no one in the family would tell me outright that he was going die. So he let me know the best way he could.
ARE you crying on the floor in a fucked up ball yet? If you're not, please forgive yourself, you heartless bastard and enjoy this little moment I had with my Grandmother who is now 90.
I found a hole in my yard the other day and told Grandma about it.
She said, "Oh my. That could be someone's grave."
I said, "Well, I'm not sure about that."
She said, "Well, don't go falling in or it could be yours!" And then howled at her own joke.
Here's another Ramona moment to chew on.
My brother has a one year old and works as a social worker in a state hospital.
He said to me the other day, "I work with psychotics and psycopaths all day and it's easier than being at home with my one year old!"
When I told Grandma this she said, "Well, when they have that much energy, that's a good thing because then you know they're not sick."
