Letters and Comics from No.6

A Word from Annley Spot

Just to let you know, me and my church dont approove one bit of your so-called "magazine" with its sick "sense of humor" and we decider you "peeple" are "sick" and should be put away in "institushuns" wher you belongue. Onley poorley ajusted slime "people" wood find this the leest bit funnie. You mae think I "fell into this categore but I dont. Ha." To bad in the yere 2000 the easter coste includn Dalawear will fall into otion so put on your lifesaver jackit. When my friends say Annley Spot youre off youre tree, I show them youre magazene and they say Annley Spot youre not to bad.

Praze the Lor, Annley Spot, Grater Chicago Areae


Happy Birthday, Jesus!

Yes, it's that time of year again to say, "Happy Birthday, Jesus," so, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JESUS! from we, the Mondello's and a few of the other fine families on Birchdew Lane. We wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a prosperous 1987!

1986 has seen a beehive of activity on this street--more houses, a couple of more streets, a new 7-11 store close by, and a few more Spanish among the domestic help. In this household, Joan's been very hard at work, being one dedicated little lady as head of the Refreshment Committee at the Pat Robertson Campaign Headquarters. She can hardly wait to make her Republican Fudge Surprise when our next president comes through California in February. Yours truly was promoted last June to Northern California Sales Director for Coors Beer--a job not without its headaches (sheesh, those people I deal with in San Francisco can be downright weird at times--not all of them are 49er fans, I guess), but our new sales campaign ("Amber Waves of Grain, American Know-How, and the Thirst of a Few Real Men") should help sales get rolling in the new year.

The rest of the street is as fine as ever. The Mitchell's daughter, Heather, was promoted to dough-former at Mrs. Field's cookie store at nearby Harewood Mall. Harvey Wallace and family, the blacks on our street, are nice people. The Rutherfords, a couple of doors down, are active in their church, which will have an ice cream social for Peace and the Contras. David Rutherford, being the 17-year-old that he is, blasts the street with heavy metal music now and then, but assures us he's not listening to anything satanic. Fred Rutherford is organizing a Neighborhood Eye Crimewatch program after some of the Wallaces' relatives parked their cars in front of his house last Thanksgiving.

Well, that's Birchdew in a nutshell! Once again, Happy Birthday, Jesus, have a great 1987, drink plenty of Coors, and make wise investments!

Sincerely, Larry Mondello
Birchdew Lane, Grape Hill, California


The Intrepid Marc Landau

Here's a great new poem that I've written. It's called "Room For Two," and it kinda goes like this:

Cherry tarts, throwing darts,
Chinese men are pulling carts.
Morning dew, river view,
Have you got a room for two?

Pretty amazing, isn't it? If you don't want to print it, I understand. But I have a gun, and I will kill you.

Buenos tacos, Marc Landau

P.S. Remember, "if you can dream it, you can buy it."

Little Peppy's Got Burnout

I am a student at a small midwestern college. My major is Forestry, and I minor in Voc-Ed with an emphasis on secondary woodshop. Well, one night after several hours of pulp analysis in the forest products lab, I was approached by a really wild looking babe from the art department who introduced herself as Chris (we'll call her Chris).

Chris had a full head of ample blonde hair and a tight, madras beaded halter that exposed her pert well formed giagunda heavenly orbs, both of which seemed to defy gravity in a manner that left very little to the imagination. Her nipples stood erect in the chill spring air, resembling nothing so much as two baby pacifiers sewn to whoppee cushions or smurfette dolls or something like that you get the picture. Her leatherette spandex velcro nauga miniskirt sheathed her so tightly that her pubic triangle was delineated perfectly and oddly resembled a brush I used to clean a medium tooth file earlier in the evening.

Needless to say, before I could say Bitchin' Liberal Arts Major my penis was engorged with blood usually reserved for my Right Brain Thinking Seminars on Creativity in the Marketplace, and I had an inarticulately raging hard-on that would've been difficult to hide with an Allied Moving Van.

Glancing covertly at my bulging lower quadrant, she said, "Hey square, what you need is some artistic relief. Want to see some etchings I did of Thomas Pynchon?"

"Thomas pinchin' what?" I asked innocently and thought about my unbelievable luck with this fuckable foxy feline fellatiate candidate. "How about a drink first?" I said in a manner so knowing I figured she probably got wet just thinking about a manner so knowing.

"Yeah," she panted, "I'm dry as a toaster and half as tepid. Why don't we go to a quiet little beatnik bistro with a bagpipe band I just happen to frequent called Le Odious over on Fifth and Windchime?"

Before you could say Cliff Notes to Hamlet we were seated at the bar and her skirt was snaking up a well alabastered thigh while she told me about her plan to sell limited edition ceramic replicas of James Joyce's eyeglasses to freshman with literary pretensions. I didn't know what the fuck she was talking about, but by now my penis had tied itself into something resembling a balloon animal version of a Great Dane, and I was getting off just thinking about positioning her bountiful bush crevice cavity into range, so I just nodded yes.

Chris seemed to sense my highly aroused state when my penis began peeking out of my shirt collar, because she suddenly jumped up and shouted, "I don't think this is a full drink. Let's measure!" She then released my trouser boa from its Levi cage and plunged the tip into the triple shot of Bacardi 151 rum she had bought me, opting for a Gertrude Stein herself. A Gertrude Stein is a Shirley Temple with Triple Sec and a shot of radiator fluid, she explained.

"Just like I thought, only two inches of liquor," she bellowed. "This calls for ACTION."

I must admit the sensation of having little Peppy dipped in a shot of liquor was relatively new to me, and this feeling increased noticeably when she produced a match and tossed it into the glass, causing the rum, and subsequently my penis, to burst into flames.

"I'm a flaming snake charmer!!" she chanted, producing a rosewood recorder from her oversized, hand sequined bag. "Let me blow an occidental tome to your flaming mini-manhood!" which by now looked like nothing so much as a localized Viking funeral.

"This is better than El Topo," she cooed as I ricocheted about the bar to the general bemusement of the patrons, who had apparently witnessed this several times previously. I eventually came to rest in a tall glass of Schaefer's, my stump of proto manhood sizzling and smoldering. At this time the discomfort and just plain agitation of the evening's events caught up with me, and I blacked out. When I awoke, the Les Odious was empty, and my dick hurt like hell. There was a note taped to my chest that read:

Thanks for participating in my final for Performance Art 101. By utilizing your body as the objective manifestation of my inward hostility toward women's insignificance in the cosmos and ironically paralleling the Joan of Arc legend through flamable actualization, I'm sure to get an 'A'. And that sure beats blowing the prof. P.S. Please don't call me Chris.

So now what do I do? Name Withheld on Request


Sable Stamp Campaign OK!

Hi, I'm Sable received your name and address from my friend Silvia. Silvia works for Club Barnes. I'm sure you know about the Barne Club perhaps you don't! The Barne Club is a non profit social organization which works as a catalyst Bringing together folks like ourselves. Such as swingers, singles and other social groups.

I don't live in LA just visiting a girl friend for a few weeks. My mother lives no more than 15 minutes from where your located! you both have the same zip code.

I plan to visit Mom is 15 days from now. perhaps we could write each other and maybe I'll visit you! If we have anything in common.

I'm going through a separation from my old Man Tony. We've were married for three years, However I can't take being abused any longer! So I left him. Tony is still in key largo last time I heard! Just hope he don't try to follow me. Anyway sorry to burden you with my petty problems. I guess I'm just lonely and need someone to share my feelings with.

Perhaps I'll relocate and get an apartment near my mom. Anyway. I don't know very many people their. was hoping to develop a friend through the Barne Club. You see I've been a member for 3 1/2 years they have members in every state. headquarters is based in LA. Silvia who works for them happens to be my best friend she got me involved with the group when she first started working their.

Honestly speaking I was into swinging before I met Tony. however he didn't groove so I dropped out. Anyway my desire now is to pick up the pieces and start a new!

Forgive me if I don't come across so well I'm not used to writing to a complete stranger a long time. I feel like a kid fresh out of High School. Well let me know something about you and if your interested to write or get together. I'm not really so shy. But it's always hard at first especially now. But this letter sound a bit stupids maybe you will not reply that's up to you. but do! even if it's to say no thank you OK! I'd appreciate it very much. being that I'm not a liberty to give out her number However you could reach me at the club Address OK.

Love and friendship, Sable

PS. When you write me if you would could you enclose a few stamps. I'm totally out. Only if you happen to have a few extra. Don't go out of your way OK!

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