Calvin Posterity was often jailed for being a habitual public nuisance. Although well into his 30’s, he practiced brilliant adolescent mischief: In the middle of the night he’d park his 1978 Subaru Brat near a remote photo enforced intersection, take out his two-wheeled scooter, put on his helmet, take off his clothes and repeatedly glide through the intersection buck naked against the red light. He sometimes tripped the photo flash upwards of 30 times. Of course in the morning the city’s director of traffic violations would be swamped with naked pictures of a very Caucasian Calvin scooting through the intersection wearing only a dangling participle where usually a hood ornament was located. After being identified in a below the waist line up by his urologist, Calvin admitted to the prank stating, “I only did it for the exposure.” A mind capable of such life affirming disobedience on the asphalt was also unmatched in generating joyous chaos on parchment. In his letters he produced brilliant mischief once again with the aid of the more traditionl dangling participle. As in; After a thorough whipping, the chef folded the eggs into the batter. Calvin’s probation officer supervises his court imposed community service which is to reprint the many zany, kooky and otherwise incoherent letters written for posterity by Posterity.
Dear Horsey I Saw Outstanding in its’ Field. I Mean Out Standing in its’ Field,
I hope this letter finds you with a savory feed bag full of luscious groats strapped to your horse face (and I mean that in a good way). As Sarah Jessica Parker is married, I thought I’d pursue you my frisky little filly. Tell me, are you able to read this letter with both eyes simultaneously? I ask because your eyes are set so far apart like Jackie Kennedy’s were, but not like Jackie O’s were. Remember by the time she married Aristotle Onassis her eyes had migrated closer to her nose, but out of respect for the former first lady, no one ever said a word about it. Not that she looked like Ben Turpin or anything. I always wondered why no one picked up on that, or why I’d ever bother telling a horse. I am talking to the right end aren’t I?
I don’t even know your name, but I want to make it clear that as of this writing our relationship is completely platonic; just like the kind Liza Minnelli had with any of her husbands. Do you even know who she is? These references are as hip as castor oil and go down just as easily. I wonder about us Mabel. May I call you Mabel or should I call you Mable? There’s no limit to what we can do. If you could learn to make horse versions of snow angels, I could learn to find significance in standing motionless near a fence for long periods of time. I’d thrill to whisper sweet sentiments into your perky little ears. Then again I wonder if you’re even into horse whispering.
I wanted you to know something before anyone else. I’m leaving my old gray mare because, well…she ain’t what she used to be. Ain’t what she used to be. Ain’t what she used to be. I hope I never have to say that again. Never have to say that again. Never have to say that again.
Could you ever love me? Or am I too complex? Especially since I now date outside my species. Let me give you a hoofnail sketch of just who I am. I am the best kind of homo there is – a homo sapien (the thinking homo). Also, I like to take long rides. Hopefully on your back. I wish you lived closer to me because Maybelle honey, you put the neigh in neighbor. I stand about 8 hands at the shoulder and 2 feet on the ground. I weigh 17 stone as long as each stone weighs about 10lbs. I’m crazy for you and once we’re married I’ll depreciate you more than ever, especially now that IRS Form 4835 (Farm Equipment Schedule) allows me to express my depth of feeling in accelerated ways at 25% per annum. You’re so much more than just chattel; you’re also a tax deduction.
I’ve always had an overly elaborate way of describing my political views. For example Mabelle, if you’re standing with your considerable hind quarters to the political spectrum and I’m facing it, from your perspective my politics lean right (gee), which is just a complicated way of saying I’ll die an unrepentant New Deal Democrat (haw). Surprisingly, my gait has been described as unassuming by people who haven’t even seen my fence. Also you should probably know that sprinters run in my family. Finally, I say tomato so you better say tomato too, or let’s call the whole thing off. Did I tell you about my old gray mare?
Tell me you love me by either answering this email or scraping your left foreleg on the ground three times when I drive by tomorrow. I’ll be driving a 1978 Subaru Brat with lots of primer on it. Do horses even have email or do they use the Pony Express?
Hope to be back in your saddle again,
To Henry Ford, President Ford Motors:
Those new Packard’s truly dazzle with their 16 cylinders and automatic choke feature. And although the automatic choke feature didn’t work out too well for Isadora Duncan, this gas sipping 16 cylinder engine practically runs on fumes. You can actually start the car from the inside now…it’s crazy. 23 skidoo!
I’m not coping well with prohibition. This bathtub gin is really awful stuff, especially after you bathe in it. I need to tell you something in confidence so squint very closely because I’m going to whisper now: I’m a little worried about this upstart Tucker Car Company and its safety-oriented owner Jeff Bridges. What’s next – belts on the seats to hold you in place? These so-called safety devices will add at least 78¢ to the cost of each car!
Hey Hank, would it kill you to tell your pal Bill Randy Hearst to bring back the comic strip Katzenjammer Kids. Remember Hank, the “j” in Katzenjammer is silent just like movies should be. Talkies will never fly. That glorified cantor Al Jolson would do well to keep his mouth shut in moving pictures. Give me a Buster Keaton or a Snub Pollard any day.
In closing, in the future I believe the words subaru and brat will have significance.
Written to Soufflés in general:
Dear Calumet Baking Powder Chemists,
Please stop sending me pictures of naked women. If you want to get a faster rise out of me, just send the women instead.
Written in a cross-fire hurricane
Hey where are you guys? I mean we’ve been holding a spot for you at the UN since the League of Nations, but you never show. You know we have air conditioning now and that Henry Cabot Lodge is dead so c’mon – olly olly oxen free.
There are some things we’d like to know about our frigid brothers to the South:
- Do your globes place Antarctica at the top of the world because, like us, you also practice hemispheric chauvinism?
- Has your travel bureau thought of marketing vacations to Eskimos? Talk to the Starbucks people.
- Do all your restaurants have to serve Penguin Pot Pie?
- Are you a country or a continent? (Note: I once asked the same question of William Howard Taft.)
- Are Antarcticans good pole dancers?
- We’ve concluded that, as compared to Hell, snowballs have a much better chance in your country.
Finally and in conclusion, in analyzing your country we now believe that many are cold, but few are frozen.
I’m Just Sayin’
To radiation expert and Nobel Laureate Marie Curie. Written at various times
Dear Madame Curie,
May I call you Marie? It’s been 10 years now and you send me proportionally fewer letters every year. Alright I get it – a half-life. Funny stuff Marie. And to think Adam took the time to make you out of his rib (now that’s good science). Ever since Pierre died I thought maybe you and I could y’know…oh it’s just as well, I see how you make eyes at that Einstein. That damn rumpled genius. Besides deriving the mathematical source code of the universe, what does he know that I don’t? Hear me out my little lamb. I mean I’ve got a newspaper route now, but I really think the future is in sheet music. And speaking of lambs, let me share my favorite livestock joke with you: Marie had a little lamb. And the doctor was surprised.
BTW…I’ll never forget that glorious night in Paris when I ran my fingers through your hair and it all came off in my hand. You said I was a brat and I said you were a Subaru and then you just looked at me kind of funny. And even though you look like a cue ball underneath that wig, I can’t quit you Marie. J’aime vous! J’adorez vous! You warm my heart (in fact you warm anything within 20 feet of you). Do take care and the thyroid medicine I enclose.
Love U 2,
To a fictional character:
Dear King Midas,
“Midas touch my ass!” was not a request. It was meant as sarcasm. Don’t ever touch me there again.
Epilogue: After posting bail and promising not to purposely trip any photo enforced intersections again, Mr. Posterity was released into the custody of a distant relative of Nikolai Tesla with whom he debunked Thomas Edison’s myth of the superiority of DC electrical current. His letter writing continued to spiral downward and by 2015 they were actually starting to make sense.