Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Smoke if you got em'

Dearest Internet

As you are no doubt aware this temperature at depth has become a matter of urgency; my face is, as we speak, a hefty cheese, an arctic porcupine, my whiskers protruding like icy toothpicks crowned with chunks of frozen fruit. We have no warmth. We crowd around a single match, thrusting our toes into the solitary flame; scorching the pads of our leg-ends to at least keep the memory of heat alive. We are cold to the point madness.

Thus, my digital love, I have taken it upon myself to begin a hearth. After many weeks of rummaging in the ashen dirt, I have accumulated enough kindling to keep a flame alive. We have never known such luxury. Indeed, many of the older generation ran in fear at the ignition; their memory of fire having long ago been wiped by this constant, moist blanket of darkness in which we huddle together like a fleshy pile of soiled socks.

Thus, my sweet, we have fire, and where there is fire, there is smoke; a thin, misty stick, ramming its vapourous way into the unwilling rump of the surface world. I have discovered that one may communicate with this greyish thread by placing a blanket over the fiery mound and then removing it sending Morse like signals into the rumoured blue sky above. Using this ingenious technique, I have made contact with our Oregon counterparts and their dot dash tidings have been nothing but the sweetest of news. Our Brutish companions are to play a show! This Saturday, in Salem's own Space, our conquering combo will take the stage to debut new material and drunkeness. I myself have begun to burrow my way through the continental shelf, simply in to catch a glimse of this unique and ground breaking event.

Further to this, I have included an addition to the Talking 'Tache section charting the lip brow cultivation of one infamous guitar plucker. Plus, a selection of visual treats from across the pond. See below for details. Thank you for your time.


A trail of Mike.


Head first in 50's diner.

yours cozily

Barnaby Fudge


popboy said...

Dearest Barnacle Fridge,

The facial hair on the Cat Stilken is providing untold amounts of mirth, here in the hinter lands.

Your missives simply must continue. You are able to put into one paragraph detail that the hapless boy Argos would dismiss in a sentence. Such an elegant overuse of verbacity must be applauded.

Bravo Bartleby, Bravo.

Love love love

popboy said...

Oops. Verbosity, obviously. How embarrassing.

Caroline said...

I like the slug-balancer!