It’s not easy for me to say this, but I feel we need to talk. Ever since you stopped volunteering to play Ma during my Little House on the Prairie reenactment dinners, there seems to be a rift between us. I realize that I have not always been the perfect roommate, but I need you to be honest with me. Is my incessant playing of African drums at odd, a.m. hours disturbing your peace? Are you bothered that I don’t believe Jesus would win in a fight against a dinosaur? Jesus has been a good neighbor, but when he’s had too much tequila, he becomes a dirty bucket of lies. At our neighborhood’s Labor Day barbeque, I was stunned when you totally took his side when he and his Mexican amigos claimed to know how to handle a velocorapter. Have you even seen Jurassic Park 3? Get real! No one can handle velocoraptors. No one you unrealistic circus clown.
And when, Buckley, are you going to grow up and stop working as a circus clown? You know that one day you’ll wish you had dental and medical insurance. What will you do if your goiters return? Speaking of: why the hell do you refuse to buy ionized salt? What the hell is your problem? You need more iodine in your diet and that’s a bloody fact.
And don’t think I’m naïve you clown. I see that you resent me. I notice how you roll your eyes every time I tell people that I was raised by wolves. I fricken was raised by wolves and you know this to be true. You know this! Why else would I howl so often at the full moon? That’s the way I was raised, clown! You know what I think? I think you constantly wear that bear costume just to spite me. Why else would you come home every day and change out of your clown costume just to put on a bear costume? You know that wolves only fear bears and man and that for one who was raised by wolves a man dressed up as a bear is extra scary. You promised me you’d stop wearing that if I stopped burying your leather sandals in the backyard and so far I have kept my end of the bargain.
And while I’m at it, I demand you stop scoffing at my aptitude for bi-location. Scoff all you want, I will never stop biolocating! I swear to you that as I write this I am also being simultaneously arrested in Los Angeles for public nudity. It is not my fault I cannot figure out how to make my cloths bi-locate with me. In this sense I am cursed. That is the main reason I never bi-locate at the fair. Too many people. Husbands become violently jealous when they see their wives checking out my naked body. Is it my fault that I have the body of a Greek god? Yes, I suppose it is my fault, but I will not apologize that I spend every day of my life sculpting this body in the gym. Oh the many hours spent on my Boflex! Just because you eat like the obese circus clown you are does not give you a right to resent my Herculean body.
Buckles, am I just wasting my time here? Do my words even pass through that thick bear suit of yours? It’s 100 degrees out and you’re wearing a bear costume? Come on man! This is not okay behavior for a 39-year-old man. I am forced to write to you because I refuse—I FLAT OUT REFUSE—to talk to you while you are wearing that bear costume.
We need to communicate, and I will not talk to a bear. It’s bad enough that I am forced to talk to a clown. I have more to write, but I’m currently being taken to the county jail in Los Angeles and it is very difficult to write and be two places at once and I need to use my full power of concentration to figure out how to give these officers the slip.