Monday, April 26, 2010
It’s time to take a short break from the madcap antics of Wallace, Irene, Ulus, O.B., E.D. and their mountain mayhem, an “intermission,” if you will, in which you can get up, stretch your legs, get some popcorn, check your phone messages. For those of you who choose to stick around, I’m going to delve into “The Readers Mailbag” and sample a few of the hundreds of fan letters that pour in daily.
Wassup with all this crap you’re writing about your family, dude? When you gonna get back to writing something crunk, man? Like going on a river trip with Mickey Mantle or making fun of the Rant and Rave dudes. The macaroni gang is getting real tired of all this mountain malarkey. We get the picture: you were born a poor young black child. Wrap it up man. Have ‘em all get run over by a truck. You know, big family reunion and one of those three piece semis just drops out of the sky and flattens ‘em all. We’ve already wasted $2.50 that we could have spent on generic cigarettes buying newspapers with nothing crunk inside. Wassup with that?
The Macaroni Gang
Dear Macaroni Gang,
I’m sorry you’re not down with the family saga. I figure I’ve got three or four more chapters before I return to dissecting the burning issues of the day. Meanwhile I’m storing up a backlog of ideas. I’m going to talk about winning a short story contest and just what sort of lawyer fiction it takes to impress the young editors of The Georgia Bar Journal, about my experience managing “The Cool S.W.A.P.,” the best rock and roll band you’re likely to ever hear up close (And yes, the letters do stand for something, but trust me, it’s not worth the time it will take you to figure it out. I know I wasted about 14 seconds on it), about a song I’ve written and performed publicly twice now which carries a money back guarantee that you will be offended, and, of course, my usual random observations and anecdotes. For example, I’m riding with T.J. and John T. to talk to a club owner about booking the band. When I realize my mouth tastes a little sour, the following dialogue ensues.
“T.J., you got any breath mints, gum, candy or something?”
“Maybe. Look in the glove compartment.”
“Nah. Nothing in here but traffic tickets and whatever’s in this little box.”
“That’s just condoms.”
“Are they flavored?”
Anyway, persevere young readers; Da shall return.
Honest to God now Ellus, whur do ye get them crazy idears?
P.S. I’ve planted me some beans in my marijuanie patch, some half-runners and cornfield beans for camouflage, and them beans are climbing up the marijaunie just as purty as you please. Do you thank them beans will gitche high?
In answer to your first insightful query, I’d have to say it’s an affliction, like shingles or something, that I try to cope with as best I can. Writing them down seems to help sometimes.
Your second question is easier. No, I don’t think the beans will alter your disposition one way or the other, unless you just really like beans. I think you’d have to graft the bean vines into the marijuana stalks to get that effect, and if you were going to that much trouble, I recommend a less labor-intensive crop than beans, kudzu maybe.
Also, I don’t want to meddle in your business, but I think you might want to rethink this dopefield camouflage scheme. Granted, it’s a lot better than the time you decided to decorate all the plants like Christmas trees. I mean people who grow Christmas trees for a living don’t decorate them, and if they did, they wouldn’t do it in July, and I really think all those lights just attracted the Sheriff’s attention. If we hadn’t gone to high school with George, you might have seen your liberty curtailed.
Seriously, they’ve got helicopters and marijuana sensing cameras or something. I’m under the impression most domestic marijuana is grown indoors now. You might want to invest in a bigger trailer and some books.
Dear Mr. Millsaps:
We have made repeated attempts to collect this debt. How do you sleep at night? You are in possession of seven of our CD’s. In order to get the other five free ones you have to pay for just one, “The AC/DC Christmas Album,” and the six Modest Mouse C.D.’s and five others of your choosing are yours to keep with no further obligation.
Please, be a man Mr. Millsaps. Send us the regular club price of $19.99 for the AC/DC blasphemy, along with $247.43 shipping and handling, and we’ll send you the five volume “Sonny and Cher Anthology” you keep whining about. Otherwise this matter will be referred to our legal department.
Dear Ms. Sams:
I keep telling you people, No Habla Ingles!