I have set up camp in your memory, which has been , up until now, limited to my urinating in my former professor’s back yard, conveniently I am living in his basement which facilitates the acquisition of unlimited porch territory.

I continue to drink milk heavily despite probable lactose intolerance.

I have noted your acquisition of voo-doo-magic to assist in the elimination of Dook from the National basketball Federation’s play-offs; your tactics are very clever, and have additionally resulted in your old palm tree sponteneously generating several dozen cigarette butts where its soil used to be.

I hope all is well in France, or as it shall soon be, Robo-France/14.

Best,

E

PS: Notwithstanding, I am concerned with more important matters, such as: Where does one find this Voo-Doo? Undoubtedly you have gotten it from the same Moroccan peasant woman who sells headscarves in front of your building, yes, the same one that gave you oral herpes. I imagine you have since rid yourself of all Chap-sticks and gotten detailed and multiple tests for syphilis; no longer do you share Mcdo’s beverages with complete strangers who have somewhat nice eyes, and with whom you could envision a lifetime free of bliss and love.

My point is, thanks to your cursed curse, I am not going to host the much-anticipated national corndog day party, during which I was to have completed the mythical triple-double, which would have consisted of my eating ten corndogs, ten units of beer (PBR), and one-hundred tater tots.

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I am sitting here, meditating, of course, on the Wide, Wide World of Chicken Tinga [Not Enough Tinga], and I have come to several startling conclusions: 1. there exists a soy-mockery of the sacred, and its name is Mock-Chicken Tinga. 2. Thought’s irreducible linearity, lacking any known parallel or infiniteness, makes it impossible to truly enjoy more than one Tinga at a time in the temporal-spatial being that our knowing is limited to. 3. Fiexta Mexicana Tinga, while presenting a metaphysically-charged vision of potential newness of name and dish, in reality uses the same letters that we already knew, and furthermore, has a spelling mistake; that is to say, sometimes a Tinga is only a Tinga (and it has too many x’s).

The final meditation on Tinga leads me to an even more startling conclusion: that is, the impossibility, or unnecessariness, of my saying something entirely “new” in the universal sense, outside of our phenomenological materiality, or the knowledge of language-as-such.

In the end, what it really means is that I am totally justified in sitting on my damp buttocks, which stick uncomfortably to a wooden bench painted light blue with latex paint that does not breathe, while I avoid my “real” work, or as Arendt would call it, my indistinguishable labor-work which constitutes the potential fulfillment of the project of modernity, and instead churn out fatuous statements on chicken dishes commonly found at the Chapel Hill Whole Foods while sipping a sinfully good cup of coffee, albeit served in a paper cup, and edit pictures using a new program that I found called “Gimp” that ironically and perhaps unknowingly makes a telling statement regarding the entire technological-modern project’s effect on the human condition.

Love,

J & E

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It has been while.

It sounds like you are having a good Panda Times in RoboFrance Chicken 57 (aka Heinz).

Have you tried horny goat weed? If it doesn’t boost your libido, it will at the very least make you very appealing to mature male goats. And remember, their milk is lactose-free–perfect  to avoid a constant diarrhea!

You can also apply the cream to reduce stretch marks, and resist wrinkles on the skin.

Some cultures link the spunk of a goat to eternal life. Did you know that?

I hope that your cure is colded. If not, I recommend that you visit an accredited herbariolist, I know of one with one convenient location, in Cuba. If voodoo doesn’t work (I prefer the chant “ARISE, CHICKEN” while holding the wood of an autochtonous tree, or in its absence poison  sumac will do), you can do a bang-up job with an impromptu NyQuil-Tussin-Jim Beam tea, and at least that way you will sleep well, or wake up in where you’ve forgotten your troubles and how you got there.

Make sure that when you are heating the grain alcohol (at least 151 pf) you do so in a dutch bath method, so as to assure that the cannabis tincture does not burn and possibly explode (if it does you risk losing all the THC).

Soon M shall be re-spawned. I do not think his son shall be named Micro, though unfortunately.  I am quite well, thank you.

Last week my ipod broke, so I hit it on the table for a while and I thought about your ambitious thesis to phonetically translate every volume of the online edition of L’Equipe. You can practice with capoeira: Cap, Oh, Hey, Rah! Which is very useful for defending yourself against Brazilian street vendors (a deal is a deal). Have you heard of Pastinha? It is Brazilian for a capoeira legend that means “Small, yet very Pasty, Littleness.”

I thought Europeans were also capitalist slimes? No? Shower increasage and more likely.

Yours Truly,

Galligan MaGillicuddy

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I am currently still not completely employed, which means I am in radical deb-it, and soon I shall too be the property of various corporations, including Lethal Wrecker, Inc. and Mr. Ling-Ling’s Cleaners. I would tell you more about it but you would have to have NETSCAPE browser.

I am glad that your complete conversion to slightly creepy American expat is going well. Soon you will have an entire book, for there was much defecation. I applaud you for your courage in your decision to translate the entirety of PARIS MATCH magazine for the whole decade of 2006. I do not doubt it will be a fitting acquisition for the University’s far-reaching French Undergraduate teaching program for majors. Issuing a daily translation of “L’EMAIL ROUGE” is even more flabbergasting. Godspeed. How does one get on the list?

My camp has been reduced to a tiny basketball court where I may dribble a soccerball, but at least the kitten from down the street is still lactating and willing to follow us home.

My Most Bitter Cordials, & an Angostura Sweater for the Famous French Surinamese Winter:

Joaquin, or Fuckleb

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