I can take a joke as well as the next guy. That should be obvious by now. I'm not bothered in the least by people's jibes at my expense, their little scenarios of judgement and castigation. I know sheer envy when I see it. I've been dealing with it for years.

But there is a limit. There is a point at which even I begin to lose patience and not suffer a fool any longer.

Amos, you have long since reached that point. You, sir, are a pathetic poseur, a man who sits idly on the sidelines of life delivering pompous and wordy attacks on your betters...people who actually DO something. People like me.

I have accomplished a good deal in this life, Amos, and I know that must really rankle with you, sitting there with nothing to boast but a lot of wind and a large vocabulary. Well, I've got your number, mister. You're an empty gasbag. You're a posturing pimple on the face of humanity. A nobody A numbskull. You couldn't act your way off a plank.

You have chosen to engage in a vendetta against me, because I represent something you will never have, Amos. Shall I tell you what it is? But I don't have to! You already know. The fact is, Amos, I outshine you in so many ways that it really has to stir pity. I would pity you. Yes, I would. But I'm not going to. I've decided you don't really merit my pity. Not until you gain a little perspective and humility. Think about that the next time you get all worked up to launch another sally against me, my career, my horses, my beautiful daughter, and all the other stuff that convulses your nasty little jealous mind with rage and hatred.

I am the stuff of real dreams, Amos. The dreams of common men and kings. I am the sweet smell of success. That's what's really got you by the short and curlies, and you know it.

Decidely yours,

William Shatner