9 Comments

Total fun, merci!

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You had me at the low-power Citroen. Hilarious. I shared a link to your substack in my answer to your comment on my story today.

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Dear Joyce,

You may remember my letter last month about that scene Daddy pulled with the mob at our house in Sodom. I thought it would be totally gross to have to have sex with all 40 of them, especially right out on the lawn since no way Mom was letting them into the living room in their filthy sandals. On the other hand I was almost 15 and like, practically the last virgin left in the city, except of course for my sister, Lilliputhah. Then we had to flee to this grotty cave where my skin is practically turning green from the damp and we left all our unguents and kohl back in the house, and Mom turned into a pillar of salt and she was the only one who had any clue what to do with my hair, and believe me, when you're living in a cave, every day is a bad hair day.

Only it gets worse, because after we got Daddy drunk and took turns sleeping with him, it seems he kind of got into it, and, okay, it wasn't as bad as I thought, only now I have the feeling he's kind of more into Lilliputhah than me. Like last night was supposed to be my turn only Daddy hit the wineskin a little more than usual and he kind of passed out at around 8:30 and like, what am I supposed to do, read the Bible until I fall asleep? I mean, she's older and a little more developed, and her hair doesn't frizz up in the humidity like mine does, but I thought we had an agreement that we would take turns, and she's just being a pig about it like she always is.

Any advice you can give I would appreciate. I'm enclosing a selfie so you can see what I mean about the hair, although it's a little hard to see, we only brought one candle with us.

Sincerely,

Little Sister

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I have a depraved readership. And so many are good friends.

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My readership is a bunch of smart asses but I can't say they're depraved.

I'd better try harder.

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Dear Miss Wadler,

I read with some dismay your cursory counsel to Veronica, vis-a-vis Jughead's wanting in on the menage with Archie and Betty. Indeed "boundaries" should be explicit but as a long-time observer of the vacillating Archie-Betty-Veronica dynamic, it should come as no surprise Jughead's befuddlement, not the least of which his being on the spectrum. I have availed upon Miss Grundy, M.A Ed., to assist should you need deep(er) background on the individuals.

Very truly yours, Mr. Weatherbee, principal, Riverdale High School

p.s. Since you're delving into primal indulgences...and food,--Newman's Balsamic Vinaigrette is not only a tangy salad dressing but works, in a pinch, as makeshift lube.

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Mr. Quint,

I fear you have not turned on the news. Jughead entered Riverdale High this morning armed with an AR-15 automatic, shot Miss Grundy, whom he apparently blamed for "messing up my head", and then turned the gun on himself. Mr. Weatherbee suffered a major heart attack and is not expected to survive. We welcome your thoughts and prayers. And do Look for our special issue: "Archie the Avenger: Payback Time." Guns don't kill people. Crazy comic characters kill people.

-- J.W.,

Bereavement Counselor

Archie Comics

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