Dear Flan Iliescu,
I called you last night but you were out selling werewolf costumes to Albanian immigrants freezing tripe in garbage bags in horizontal freezers to vend at dawn to an unsuspecting alphabetic public heavy on sentimentality and low on milk.
Ballard echoes with revolutionary enthusiasms.
Clients of Kidder Peabody donate nine-irons and statues of themselves to poor snowmen (or so they conceive them) who buy kids licorice ropes with them and print and distribute booklets on decency self-respect and common sense which are gaining ground in the whorehouses.
To no avail, however, as the Albanians, thanks to your werewolf outfits, sitting there talking to people in their sleep and making the machinery of information degrade into music, find solace and profitability in the replacement of materialism with violin music, sausages, huge marriage ceremonies, chuckling, boobies and limericks the length of the Odyssey.
I guess we owe you an apology or apoplexy or an apothecary or dromedary, depending on which huge plume of ash you stand on in a coma or corona of light or in a functioning or disfuntional dairy on the Arizona-Deleware border, where, rightly, you are praised as a matter-of-fact dictionary, or visionary.
Suffice it to say, serious gastrointestinal arpeggios squat in supermarket parking lots with your name on it. We tip our hats to your rubric-enhanced mini-wheats and say, “Thanks—Albanian werewolves the size of squirrels get mad in our pants.”