by Russell Streur
Dear Yang Chu:
Home tonight for me is Bear Dancer on the blue ridge. You know the place. I am with the certain Miss Southern Ocean so you are out of luck and definitely not invited.
Sorry but this is something special and that’s the truth.
And I hope your crowd isn’t still arguing whether any this can equal any that or whether only this can equal only that.
You deep thinkers need to drink more.
Or take up poetry: except to the Muse, we’re not accountable for anything we say at all. The government ought to start charging for the license.
Don’t tell them I said so.
And don’t tell High Hat either.
Seriously—don’t even think about dropping in by accident. I’d have to call the authorities and the sheriff up here has absolutely no sense of humor as in none and zero. He’d arrest you for breathing if he could and for not breathing if he couldn’t.
Especially you.
Speaking of the law, I ran into our friend Robber the other day. He’s as handsome as ever and must be nine feet tall. He just keeps growing. All the Peach Blossom girls are crazy for him and a lot of them are tired in the morning.
I want to know what he eats for dinner but he still won’t tell anyone. Go figure.
While we’re on the menu, Robber is still furious that he didn’t eat High Hat’s liver for lunch last month after that old charlatan tried to sweet talk him out of the criminal life.
Personally I think Robber would’ve died of food poisoning after the first bite.
Anyway, Robber sends his best to you and offers up the latest version of his five rules:
Plan carefully
Steal only what’s worth stealing
Be the first to take it
Be the last to keep it
Share the loot equally.
Incidentally, the Three No’s of the certain Miss Southern Ocean are not what you think. And there’s actually four. (One of her ancestors must have been a fox; she has a very sly sense of humor if you haven’t noticed yet.) But I am sworn to secrecy on the No’s so do not ask.
And since we’re on the ways of life, I have something to say about your chapter on how a man can not spend all his time in a fine bed, listening to lovely music and playing with a beautiful woman: Guess again.
Your pal,
Monkey
PS You forgot to mention wine.
LETTER FROM GREASY GRASS
by Russell Streur
by Russell Streur
June 22, 1876
Dear General Custer:
The banks along the Little Big Horn are beautiful this time of year.
I am happy to hear you plan to visit soon.
Chief Gall and I would like to invite you to breakfast.
How does the morning of June 25th sound to you?
By the way—
Rain In The Face says he would much enjoy a heart to heart
with your brother Tom.
Crazy Horse says he will come too.
But you know him.
He is always late.
Because his horse is always off somewhere
Acting crazy.
I laugh so hard I could die.
So could you.
With Best Regards,
Sitting Bull
PS:
Bring your friends along.
All of them.
Russell Streur was hit on the head by an insistent muse from Crete in 2004 and hasn't been right since. He is proudest this week of getting through it without a cigarette, but he is tempted for sure right now. Luckily, there's vodka in the freezer.
