hood with the fur

Dearest [redacted],

I’ve been watching you for a very long time. Well, not always me personally, but you’ve been watched by myself or one of my “team” your entire life. Keep in mind that life, to me, starts after your egress from your mother’s nether regions. I don’t get down with that kind of messy situation. I probably should because it’s kind of what I do but when my old lady popped a critter out, she made me be there and I did pretty well until the slimy bugger got too close and I vomited on it. In itself, this wasn’t a terribly traumatic event, now the aftermath of blood and guts and bile made the inside of the hospital room look like someone had bombed the slaughterhouse. It was like the devil’s wet dream.

At any rate, once you got all cleaned up from tromping down your mother’s lady tube, that’s when I come in to the picture, your “always-voyeur.” I see you when you’re sleeping, I actually watch you most then because I can slowly satisfy myself whereas when you’re awake you’ll often do something to “soften the blow”, so to speak. What my team does to themselves while watching you, I can’t even imagine. I’m pretty sure that Sven, the elf, is into the butt play pretty hard so your guess is as good as mine. That reminds me, if you’re ever here in my neck of the woods, no matter what he says do NOT take your pants off around Rudolph. See, he’s got no fingers or thumbs and consequently can’t work a button or zipper or belt. I rock all three because of one drunken night a few years back when I accepted an invite to a rousing game of strip poker. Blitzen, Cupid, Rudolph, and I were playing for a few hours. They would cut off some tufts of fur whenever they lost a hand and my magic tended to give me the advantage so I was winning for a while, until the drank started to set in. I lost a few in a row until I was down to my knickers. Cupid and Blitzen said they needed to hit the little deer room and got up to leave. After the door shut, I heard two quick clicks. First was the lock on the door and next were the lights in the room. Next thing I knew I was being mounted like a Picasso painting. Arms pinned to the wall by a pair of fiendishly sharp hooves, pants gone off to god knows where at this point. All I really remember was terror and a pulsing red light which flickered until it’s glow eventually saturated the whole room and I finally blacked out.

legalize bluegrass

"The months roll past the love that you struck dead, did you love me only in my head?" -Doug Hopkins

If I were a bettin’ man, I’d bet everyone else in the world were eating two hot dick sandwiches right now. You and I are the only two able to successfully avoid the hot dick sandwich temptations. We (if you were around, asshole) could be the two folks that save the world from dick sandwich infestation.

You may be wondering why I wrote “legalize bluegrass” on the top of this correspondence. It’s because I wanted you to know there’s always a place for you in my heart (or bluegrass band) and for all time I don’t think you’ll be forgotten, at least by me. Additionally, if you’re ever out of work and need a bud, I’d learn to pick the banjo right proper like and you can “play the jug” in my bluegrass band. That’s just the kind of friend I am. If you fell on hard times, you couldn’t count on me to support you but you could count on me to voluntarily put myself in your shoes or a similar situation and then I’d naturally start a band to make money. In summary (or what I’m really trying to say) is that if you ever needed me (and I mean really needed me), I’d fabricate a situation where I seem needed back and I’d be able to help you out (hopefully) by giving you your fair share of our band’s take on any given night. I would never jump in your boat, but if yours were different than mine, I’d totally get in on that, heard?

I CANNOT SAY THE SAME FOR YOUR SELFISH ASS.

I realize it’d make more sense, if you fell on hard times, to simply say “hey bud, stay at my place” then keep my situation “as-is” or attempt to improve it, but honestly, I’ll tell you what. Sunset sensibility can eat two dozen dirty hot dick sandwiches. I’m me, and as such, capable of far more than the average asshole. But, whatever. I reckon that type of faithfulness doesn’t much matter anymore these days what with the kids on the old twitter and facebook and such.

What do I know about wooden pens? Only that they’re the bee’s knees and that the cat’s pajamas have a habit of finding their way to my bedroom floor. You’ll have that though, it happens.

REM (the band, not the sleep cycle) broke up not long ago and the nostalgic dipshit in me immediately ran to the old I-P-O-D* and it was all butterfly decal, rearview mirror, dogging the scene. Withdrawal, in disgust, is never the same as apathy. Do you remember when they were relevant? I remember when we were relevant and I suppose that’s a little more important.

Wooden pens. Bow ties. Typewriters. 35 millimeter cameras. The tribes-folk naturally dislike these things. Harder, smaller, faster, stronger are the cries of the zombie apocalypse of uniformity.

Swimming towards the open ocean instead of the closest boat. Live together and die alone. Damn near one hundred miles in the wrong direction and humming along full steam.

What news does our future hold? Grimness, destruction, withering and sadness until it’s all over and the sweet release of death sweeps us off our feet and beds us both. The next morning he’s gone and never calls.

Regards,
Javier F. Nelson
<3