Dear Mr. Board,
I feel funny calling you Mister, maybe UNCLE or PROFESSOR would be better. I feel like I’ve known you for a dozen years. I read your column in MRR since I was 15. (Yeah, When they bit the dust I was happier than a liberal at a book-burning.) I’ve been following your blog since you were fired. I feel like I know you. And I also feel like you’re the only person in the world who would understand —maybe appreciate— my uniqueness.
“Allagash or Founders?” I ask.
“My father only had one arm,” I tell him.
“I know that,” he says. “But that wasn’t you. That was a war vet… almost normal for the time. You tried to be different to avoid normal. But you don’t get what it’s like BEING different, and trying to pass for normal.”
I must look puzzled, because he sits on the couch and sighs deeply… taking a slug of Allagash. He talks to me like a special ed teacher trying to explain algebra to a retard.
“Hey,” I say, “that’s not fair.”
Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003.
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See you in hell,