Letters to W: Two

Dear W,

Doesn't #100daysofTrump sound like a medical condition? You could replace Trump with "Loose Bowels" and we're still talking facts.


Ah, W. I figure you like a good poop joke. 

Spring is the season for my family. Colorful things shoot out of the ground while we're remembering what we buried deep into it. We've got my brother's birthday on 3/19, and then his death day on April 30. My grandpa's death day is also in March. Memorial day is at the end of May, and don't let that happy rhyme fool you; we bar-b-que like everyone else that weekend, but we are sure to include a somber moment or two, quickly followed by a shot of Patron (or two). So many veterans to honor, so little tequila.

My Dad's death day is in June. I used to release balloons for it,  but I care about the environment now. Or, I always did, but wasn't considering my complicity in fucking it up. In any case, I don't buy balloons anymore. And I don't release helium ones I find, at parties, grand openings, used car lots. I grab scissors, make a small incision at the base of the balloon, right above the knot, and I suck that helium down. If there are people around, a potential audience, then I say serious things in a Betty Boop voice.

"How much is that Subaru outback?"

"Do you have a life insurance policy? Do you want one?"

"The pollen count is extremely high today."

Do you suffer seasonal allergies, W? What is the pollen count in Texas? Can you just give me a blanket number? Can you just say,

"Well, Sam, the pollen count is seven. Can I offer you an MGD, the champagne of beers, and a Claritin?"

Thanks, W, but I prefer Zyrtec. And Patron. Occasionally Bourbon. And if we're being honest, things that are green but don't make me sneeze. 

(I don't inhale).

Do you remember Memorial Day, 2008?

You spoke on TV. You spoke about Ronnie. I think I've told you this before, W. You stood at Arlington in front of the Tomb of the Unknown and you said, "Ronnie Tucker liked NASCAR." 

This is not true. He liked fast cars. The difference is mighty between the souped-up street racers Ronnie preferred--banana yellow and muffler-heavy and growling into the night--and the Pepsi-fueled cages rednecks watch tread circles. No offense to you, sir, but you are what you eat, as they say. And rednecks are your bread and butter. Were. They were, but now they belong to that Cheeto in the White House. What a disgrace to Cheetos and America. I bet we can agree on that. 

Sorry if I'm rambling. Tomorrow I graduate from Graduate School. In writing. Though you wouldn't know it based on the sentence, "Tomorrow I graduate from Graduate School." Anyway, that's the point of this letter. It's actually an invitation. If you're around Columbus, Ohio this weekend, you're welcome to come to my graduation. And hang around--we could also do Ronnie's Day together on Sunday. We could haunt helium balloon joints. We could tequila. You could tell me about the weirdest advice your Dad ever gave you, like, 



"Dick Cheney is cool."

Hope you're well. If you want to send a cash gift in your place, or, like, a certificate to Red Robin, that's cool too. My favorite burger there is the Whiskey River BBQ burger. That thing is like one million points on Weight Watchers.

Talk Soon,