textfiles/magazines/HOE/hoe-1097.txt

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$$ .d""b. .d""b. HOE E'ZINE #1097
[-- $$""b. $$ $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ss$$ "An Open Letter To Clayton Fraser"
$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ by Soybean
$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ 06/16/00
[-- $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
$$ $$ "TssT" "TssT"
Correspondence from Clarence, a Small Purple Dinosaur, to Clayton
Fraser, in Light of His Abandonment of Clarence in a Shower
Clayton:
Some might think that life as a dinosaur would be one of relative
leisure, especially taking into consideration my relative lack of natural
predators due to my heavily armored flesh. Alas, those of that opinion
are quite wrong. While my plate-lined back protects me from being
physically devoured by enemies, these bony protrusions do little to shield
me from real predators - those who see fit to devour my heart. To injure
a heart one passes not through tough exterior flesh, but instead reaches
that soft place via gentle words, meaningful glances, and purposeful
caresses. Traversing this path is something you are obviously quite
skilled at, as your words, looks, and touches made me absolutely
vulnerable. I laid awake at night imagining our future together - a
future filled with frolicking in bright sunlight and velvety green grass,
of late nights sharing stories and fantasies and each others' company.
I remain sleepless each night. However, I no longer am brimming
over with happy ideals of our future together. I am instead pensive,
lachrymose. Whatever future is left for us is not one of warmth - it is
one of time alone, neglected, left damp and shivering in the shower. I am
a cold-blooded creature, you irreverent fool! If I am left in climes such
as this, illness is the inevitable result. I have no source of warm
outside of the sun, your lamps, and your hugs. Have you no concern for
this? The answer is obvious.
If I had the power of God at my disposal, I would smite your country
with frogs, as God threatened the pharaoh of Egypt in Exodus 8:2. As I am
a mere dimetron, and extinct to boot, such pervasive plagues are far beyond
my current means. All I have at my disposal is my thoughts and a keyboard,
and whatever energy I am able to summon to heave my massive body from key
to key. If this letter does not suffice in communicating my feelings to
you, I am at a complete loss. I will become wholly useless. This is the
slow, sick, suckin' part of me.
The perils of your eyelashes torture my libido into a state of crass
belief in Roman Catholicism. But I am now alone. Your cleverness ferments
meat without the need of oxygen. I am alone and damp. The tiny sounds of
ancient bees resound forth from the forested coercions between your toes.
I am alone, damp, and cold. Seven donkeys and a concubine cannot compare
with the tarnished sheen left in your path of combustion. You have left me
here, alone, damp, and cold, in the maddening confines of this shower.
May you always be as vivid as your hallucinations.
"You would think a film with eight or so midgets beating the hell
out of each other while crucifying a monkey and destroying machinery would,
at the very least, be amusing," as was so eloquently stated by my human
acquaintance, Mr. J arett Kobek. Indeed, one might assume that to be humor
of the highest order, but while in the throes of this violent depression
you have put in me, nothing is funny. What am I left with? I leave with
this thought, verbalized by cartoonist Matt Groening: "Love is a snowmobile
racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you
underneath. At night, the ice weasels come."
With Much Love,
Clarence
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[ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu HOE #1097, BY SOYBEAN - 6/16/00 ]