i will send this out to sissy, she should get it in a week, and you will be able to meet her. when i send a letter to sissy, duplicates must be sent to u.s. post office boxes in laconner, taos, pine ridge, cherokee and that other place, for her to pick up.  why she's probably out there right now in hibbing, minnesota, or deluth, montana.  hitching her way across the country.
sit down dear, do sit down.
take a load off those lovely tootsies. yes, sit right down. would you fancy some sherry?
shit o goodness, i'm all out of sherry; how about some red ripple?
you know what red ripple is don't you? it's kool-aid with a hard on. tee hee.
to my own special sissy. cheers! and welcome. so my letter brought ya flying, eh? where were you? salt lake city? la conner? well, i may have a little surprise for you. but first, tell me about yourself. it's been six months, hasn't it? in some circles that's half a year. how are you?
that's the very first time in the eons that i've known you that i've ever heard you complain. and now you're tired, poor darling.
freak, schmeek. most of us are freaks in one way or another. try being born a male russian countess into a white middle class baptist family in mississippi and you'll see what i mean.
shit o goodness, you won't be thirty for another year, and you're more beautiful than ever.
you were the yoni yum girl from, let's see, from nineteen sixty-eight through nineteen seventy. you've always smelled so nice. like a little sister. the irony has just killed me. you, the dew girl, one of the few girls who doesn't need dew. i loath the stink of females! they are so sweet the way god made them, then they start fooling around with men and soon they're stinking. like rotten mushrooms, like an excessively chlorinated swimming pool, like a tuna fish's retirement party. they all stink. from the queen of england to bonanza jellybean, they stink.
what? oh yes. tee-hee. jellybean.
she's a young thing who works on my ranch. real name is sally jones or something wooden like that. she's cute as a hot fudge taco, and, of course, it takes verve to change one's name so charmingly. but she stinks like a slut just the same.
oh my dear yes, i bought a little ranch out west, sort of a tribute to the women of america who have cooperated with me in eliminating their odor by using my vaginal products, dew spray mist and yoni yum spray powder. a tax write-off, actually.
sissy, sissy, blushing bride, you can desist from wearing paths in those forgotten highways. the countess has arranged a job for you. and what a job.
i am once more about to make advertising history. and only you, the original yoni yum. dew girl, could possibly assist me.
shit o dear, that's enough to make me asthmatic. the nerve of those twits. what do they know about female odor? don't interrupt. here's my concept. my ranch out west? it's a beauty ranch. oh, it's got a few head of cattle for atmosphere and tax purposes. but it's a beauty ranch, a place where unhappy women -- divorcees and widows, mainly -- can go to lose weight, remove wrinkles, change their hair styles and pretty themselves up for the next disappointment. my ranch is named the rubber rose, after the rubber rose douche bag, my own invention, and bless its little red bladder, the most popular douche bag in the world. so get this. it's on the migratory flight path of the whooping cranes. the last flock of wild whooping cranes left in existence. well, these cranes stop off at my little pond -- siwash lake, it's called -- twice a year, autumn and spring, and spend a few days each time, resting up, eating, doing whatever whooping cranes do. i've never seen them, understand, but i hear they're magnificent. very big specimens -- i mean, huge mothers -- and white as snow, to coin a phrase, except for black tips on their wings and tail feathers, and bright red heads. now, whooping cranes, in case you didn't know it, are noted for their mating dance. it's just the wildest show in nature. it's probably the reason why birdwatching used to be so popular with old maids and deacons. picture these rare, beautiful, gigantic birds in full dance -- leaping six feet off the mud, arching their backs, flapping their wings, strutting low to the ground. dears, it's overwhelming. and picture the birds doing their sex dance on tv. right there on the home screen, creation's most elaborate sex ritual -- yet clean and pure enough to suit the pope. with lovely sissy hankshaw in the foreground. in a white gown, red hood attached, and big feathery sleeves trimmed in black. in a very subdued imitation of the female whooping crane, she dance. walks over to a large nest in which there sits a can of yoni yum. and a can of dew. off-camera, a string quartet is playing debussy. a sensuous voice is reading a few poetic lines about courtship and love. are you starting to get it? doesn't it make the hair on your neck stand up and applaud? my very goodness gracious! grandiose, lyrical, erotic and girl scout- oriented; you can't top it. i've hired a crew of experts from walt disney studios, the best wildlife cinematographers around. you're my eternal favorite. princess grace herself couldn't be better, not even if she had your personality which she doesn't; anyway, dear, i'm out of photography now and into water colors. ah how circuitous conversation is! we're back at the beginning. the exact man i've wanted you to meet is my artist the watercolorist.
purely personal. i believe you might enjoy one another.
now, now. don't get exasperated. i realize that you've always avoided all but the most rudimentary involvements with men, and i might add, you've been wise. heterosexual relationships seem to lead only to marriage. for men, marriage is a matter of efficient logistics: the male gets his food, bed, laundry, tv, pussy, offspring and creature comforts all under one roof, where he doesn't have to dissipate his psychic energy thinking about them too much, then he is free to go out and fight the battles of life, which is what existence is all about. but for a woman marriage is surrender.
but here you are, still a virgin -- you are virginal yet, aren't you?
yes, well, what i'm getting at is that there comes a time when it is psychologically impossible for a woman to lose her virginity. she can't wait too long, you know. now, there's no reason why you must lose yours. i mean, just ponder it a bit, that's all.
i can't be certain that you would. but what have you got to lose?
good, good, good.  you'll enjoy it, you'll see. julian is a gentleman.
by the way, sissy.  he's a full blooded indian.
so she left town. well, that shouldn't surprise you. leaving town is what sissy is all about. but tell me, how did she strike you?
she's obviously that. jesus! which would you rather have, a million dollars or one of sissy's thumbs full of pennies?
it's high time you realized, honey babe, that a woman doesn't have to give the best years of her life to radcliffe or smith in order to speak the english language.
ninety degrees to the left, i hope. how does she feel about you?
she always leaves town, you dummy. that doesn't mean anything. what about in bed? how does she like it in bed?
like what?
what do you think?
shit o dear, julian. do you mean to tell me you didn't get it on?
whose fault was that?
what do they do to you boys in those ivy league schools, anyway? strap you down and pump the nature out of you? they can even press the last drop of nature out of a mohawk buck. why, send a shaman or cannibal to yale for four years and all he'd be fit for would be a desk in the military-industrial complex and a seat in the third row at a neil simon comedy. jesus h.m.s. christ! if harvard or princeton could get hold of the chink for a couple of semesters they'd turn him into a candidate for the bow tie wing of the hall of wimps. oogie boogie.
chink's the guy's name, for christ's sake.
aw, he's some old fart holyman who lives in the hills out west. gives my ranch the creeps and the willies, too. but though he be old and dirty, he's alive, i'll bet, clear down to his toes. they don't have his juice in a jar in new haven. well i suppose that i'll have to write sissy out on the road.
you pathetic little cutesy-poos. do you actually suppose this exhibition of childlike melodrama is advancing the cause of freedom?
then take it.
sissy, don't play dumb with me! you're a good model but a shitty actress. the cowgirls are involved in this whooping crane disappearance. you know perfectly well they are. last seen in nebraska. didn't make it to canada. siwash lake is between nebraska and canada. the cowgirls have possession of siwash lake. and who else but jellybean's wild cunts could possibly conceive of doing something so diabolical as to tamper with the last flock of some nearly extinct birds? how much do you know about it? have they murdered those cranes the way they murdered my moo cows?
sissy. you're trying to protect those scuzzy bitches. well, let your conscience be your guide, as my mommy used to say, but it won't work. those stinking sluts are going to suffer.
shit o dear.