An Open Letter to the Viewers of KCNC-TV, Denver (FCC License #43.1-2547B)

From: Henriette Bouvril-Gauchard Moody

To The Readers of This Website and Biography:

It is with a distinct sense of shame and embarrassment that I write to you today in order to qualify the record of my own existence, the direction and events of my own life.

Over the past twenty years, I have watched quietly as my son, portly entertainment reporter Greg Moody, penned ream upon ream of meaningless, libelous drivel concerning myself, my life, my husband and my three remaining (and superb) children.

Now, I feel I must speak.

* I am not, nor have ever have been, associated with The Royal Navy or the crew of the HMS Victory.

* I am not, nor have ever been, a scantily clad dancer in the cast of Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

* I have never been associated with Vaudeville, as a performer or as a impressario.

* I have never owned a print shop that produced the flier, “Flouride — The Commie’s Secret Weapon.”

* I have never been associated with the magic act, “Dr. Creeper’s Book of Secrets.”

* I would never sew a suitcase handle to my infant son’s “onesie” and throw him into an audience as “Elmer, the Flying Baby.”

* I have never been a princess, European or Hindu, a World War 1 fighter pilot, a New York Times best selling author, a hard drinking, hard fighting lady longshoreman, muscle for the Cleveland Mob, 2nd base(person) for the 1943 Brooklyn Dodgers, conductor on the last horse drawn trolley in Manhattan, a Roller Derby Queen, foreign policy advisor to President Millard Fillmore or the Wall Street floor runner who lost the earnings report on Monongahela Copper, thus sparking the 1929 Crash and the ensuing Great Depression.

I spent 40 years in a quiet, and, I might add, dignified career as a teacher. With my husband, a likewise dignified school administrator, I was able to raise four children in comfort and send three of the four to fine universities. Greg went to Western.

As for Greg and what he says about his life –

* He did attend a high school that, oddly enough, when viewed from the air, does look like an alphabet letter made out of macaroni. He says it looks like a “P.” I say it looks like a “d.”

* He was a surgical orderly. It is the only job I ever felt he was actually qualified for. What he is doing in Denver is anybody’s guess. He must have photos of someone.

* He did live in New York for a while. I have no idea what he did there.

* He did live in Grand Rapids and Milwaukee for a time. The arts community of both cities continue to detest him.

* He owes me money for all his various adventures.

* He has crinkled up little toes due to a pair of shoes I bought him at a church bazaar.

* He is the second greatest disappointment in my life. My first is the dishwasher that flooded the kitchen and ruined the floor joists.

* He owes my oldest daughter money for numerous gifts she has bought me on his behalf.

* He was a big fan of Franco-American Spaghetti as a child.

* He works in television, even though he has a face for radio.

* Greg has written five novels, all filled with shameful language and nonsensical plot points.

* A wasp once flew up his pantleg and everyone laughed.

* Greg lies. Shamefully, shamefully lies.

* Greg is married to a beautiful woman. I don’t know what is wrong with her. Despite my entreaties, she won’t leave. I believe she thinks he has a fortune hidden somewhere in the house.

* Just a reminder to Greg’s wife: Greg lies.

* He also has two lovely children, only one of which, thankfully, takes after him.

* He has numerous pets. They have always seemed attracted to his “scent.”

I am not sure what more I can add to this, other than to say that Greg was a good boy, a loving boy, throughout his childhood, until the day he was struck in the forehead by a neighborhood child wielding a 34-inch Rocky Colavito Louisville Slugger. From that moment on, he was out of control. It was either that, or the lightning.

There. I feel better now. I appreciate your taking the time to read my response to the dreadful stories my son has been telling on this website about himself, myself and his life. Know that I tried, God knows I tried.

But, then again — you watch him on TV. You must understand.

I’m betting it was the lightning.

With warm and loving thoughts,

I remain,

Henriette B-G Moody