Dear Doggy, Doogey Howitzer,

i just ate half a pound of pasta and butter, garlic salt, half a shaker of pepper and big ol' glass of ice tea. don't fuck with me. got a new load of bombers from my dentist yesterday so i'm oiled, greased, and pissing blood. don't fuck with me. the betty ford clinic called and said they had a spot for me, i told them to keep it warm.

really loved the tape and all keepy, kip it up. on one serious note thanks it was really cool ---

i tip the scales at about 185 and have a nice grampap doo working ... my biceps are the size of tree trunks but it's all fat. don't fuck with me. i go to the casinos and play the nickel slots now with the 90 year old women, and the black folk ... it's a nice drive down hwy 61 through the delta only 45 minutes from my front door. plus it's free drinks and if you get lucky you can win 50 cents.

i'm feeling this letter is beginning to take the feel of a minimum effort on my part but what can you do. pills surging through my blood stream, farting machine - gun pasta farts, dog wants in and out and in and out --- door bells, phone calls, smoke going can't catch the right humor groove. as i'm typing i can see my reflection in the window and i look like a cross between dad, mom, fran, keith, dom, and prine, springsteen, and aunt laverne - scary. well now okay, i guess i better let go before i hurt myself. thanks again, and adios.

maaaaaaaaaaark

Ramblin