By Derek Falky
Dear Loyal Countrymen,

I have long been vacationing in the southern Philippines, which is where I write to you from now. As I sit in my trench and ponder the trivialities, futility and frivolities of an island war, I am reminded of the sweet scent of Alaskan Caribou, and as I reminisce, I wet my pants and the warmth is like a sugary sundae, or, rather, the hot fudge that is poured on by the spoonful! But I digress. And so, by the setting of the rising moon, I do declare that my apple orchard is not a place of happiness, nor a place of joy, but what it is is a concentration camp for apples, a holding tank for sweet fruit juice, and, henceforth, a nuclear stomach ache for Pandora, etc., etc...

But I must keep on track and remind myself of the bullets whizzing past mine ears and mine soup so cold I could get a shiver by intaking it orally, how now! And, if such an event should so dreadfully occur (and I do shudder at that thought) I take one, no two, or perhaps, on a good day, four heaping tablespoons of alfalfa sprouts and ignite the joy in my heart to a degree far beyond Fahrenheit, a degree of notation which is regarded as most high by the people so small I inadvertently destroy them time and time again by the stomping of my patent leathers on a summer, summer day! O HO HO!

Which brings me to my last and final concluding point, that being a point which will close this letter. I have been given a treasure of the soul from a little Philippine girl, she has given me what her brother could not. In my weakness I took her fat, fat body and used it as a human shield against unavoidable death, and yes, dear readers, she perished. Oh, yes. I thought the bullets would bounce off of her flubbery body like in the cartoons, but no, my only friends, life is not a cartoon, and neither is war. As a matter of fact, only cartoons are cartoons; for instance, take Thomas and Gerald.

My Unhealthy Love To You All,
Derrich Fawlkie

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