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HO HO HO, GREETINGS FROM SANTAGUS: TO EVERYONE (you know who you are)
Bob, you can't type for shit. Try putting the TV next to the typewriter, maybe you can pretend it's a VTD or a case of VD or whatever those things are. Anyway, I'm lying, I'm not "never, never, never coming home", so don't fence my typewriter, shotgun, etc. to a dumb beaner. (I'm on a total racist kick this week because Princeton wrote to me to see if I wanted a $20,000 writer-in-residence gig and the fucking Mexican mailmen sent it back to them. Usually they just steal it and don't go to the trouble to send it back.)
"Rage" turns out to be a very vague term, anything from two beers to an orgy with syfilitic baboons. Swan Lager is actually wallaby piss--I hate it. Will investigate more sophisticated brands and will forward my report in half draft, triplicate.
Beaucoup thanks for cutting me a huss re my eyeglasses. I got them and I'm all set. Now I can see good. The only problem is that I look like a nerd. Of course, I look like a nerd without glasses, as well.
Thanks for sending long the picture postcard of Daddy D.A. getting some on some sand negroes. The return address must be in Arabic or one of them A-rab dialects. Will actually communicate with Daddy D.A. in person myself. We've all got to go be advisers on this film by Kubrick. He wants to shoot in in France. (Free sex)
Kubrick, by the way, makes me call him "Stanley". I can't stand it. The guy is a throughly charming and easy-going guy, a real good ole boy. He could fuck my sister, if I had one. (I used to have one, but I guess we must be divorced now.) We are working on creating a "more satisfying" ending for "Shorty". "But Stanley," I said, "the Viet Nam war was not bloody well satisfying." "Right," he said, "but they made you go to Viet Nam, and people are going to have to pay to see this movie." So, I have attacked the problem with a mind like a styrofoam trap. Sent him ten pages last week. Will talk to him tomorrow night. (We talk long distance frequently, sometimes as much as four hours at a whack. Kubrick pays, of course, it's his nickel, and he's using my brain for free. But his phone bill must be some big bucks.)
Got a card from Rich Seeley with a very nice photograph of a woman's ass on it. Will reply to Rich. Meanwhile, need frontal views.
I like these Australian women and maybe I'll marry some of them. Have two sweetheart girlfriends. Sherryn and Gabrielle. They both work at the Perth McDonalds. That's so romantic. Don't you think? Sherryn is 16 (not jailbait here) and Gabrielle is 22. Both of them are the cutest girls I've ever seen, but I can't decide which is cuter. Maybe I'll become a Mormon. Anyway, say hello to them in your next guard mail and it will give them a thrill. They think everyone in Los Angeles is a movie star. Boy, will they be surprised when I bring them to America. It's just not like it is on TV, folks.
No winos here. Not one. No poor people here. No crime. A guy was killed in a fight last week and it was front page news. It's boring. I miss my ration of media megadeaths.
Oh--two things I absolutely must have. First, I need a copy of the Viet Nam vets editorial I wrote for the Los Angeles Times. I've got millions of copies, but not here. Dig out the one I sent to you so I can send it to Kubrick, okay? Out of all the guys surely one of you saved my deathless prose and didn't put it in the bottom of the bird cage. I mean, is Petey a critic?
The other thing I need is Stewey's hat size. There's a Sea World-type place here called "Atlantis" and they sell caps which say "I DISCOVERED ATLANTIS"--perfect for Stewey, but I want to get one he can wear.
Boy, do I hate sailors. There are no Americans here at all, hardly, except swabies. As soon as you open your mouth everyone says, "Oh, what ship are you off of?" which is okay, if in error, but then they say, "Aren't you a sailor?" For a Marine (". . .once a marine, always a Marine. . .") this is like saying, "Aren't you an asshole?" I mean, I avoided San Diego just so I wouldn't have to look at those herds of mental defectives who wash the ships. Now I are one, and there's not much I can do about it. The ENTERPRISE was in last week, 5,000 assorted sea-going assholes were running all over town, even some jarheads, but I won't talk to them because they weren't in the Old Corps.
So where are my letters from Betsy, Steve & Amy, Paul, Lisa, and Jimmy & Joann? So far only Bob and Rich have escaped eternal damnation, or a taste o' the cat.
Bob, get some typing paper that doesn't feel like slices of slime. All erasable paper should go directly into bottom of Petey's cage. I got a newspaper clipping I'm sending Gordy--an Aussie company marketing an UNDER WATER RADIO. I have "Gus is here" & "Stewie is there" parties at "Mangoes", my local hangout, complete with real fake Tahitian motifs including copulating mermaids. Beer here comes in "middys", a glass about big enough for an earwig to shit in. Beer in a bottle is a stubby This "spellbinding, witty missive" has been brought to you courtesy of the Gus Corp. Write back quick. Many kisses,
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