Pressmaam

MEMO TO:      Dr. Uriah Rexford Artemis Drake

FROM:              Ignatius Moore Verde

DATE:               August 10, 2000

SUBJECT:       Dissolution of Permission to Treat

Please consider this memo to be official notice of my desire to cease any and all treatment programs.

Whilst under your care, certain bizarre recommendations, fostered by you to cure me of my many phobias, have resulted in the creation of additional phobic episodes.

My most recent episode has been a most frightening, realistic, yet delightful, encounter with the specter of a lovely lady.

The tale is as follows:

On Tuesday last, I awoke with a start, caused by the thick aroma of citrus within my bed chamber.  This cloying scent appeared to be emanating from a shimmering glow, which I observed hovering at the foot of my four-poster.

I arose, and, as my mind and vision cleared away the cobwebs of sleep, the glow transmuted itself into the form of a stunningly beautiful and, might I add, well-stacked young woman.

She was the color of Lime, from her long curly tresses to her delicate toes.  She undulated before my eyes in a manner that suggested both substance and transparency.  Her intoxicating perfume, most definitely of citrus origin, caused me to long for another slice of Key Lime Pie.

Her intense green glow cast its light even into the darkest corners of my vast room.

She beckoned me to approach.  She reached out to tickle the stubble on my chin.  A giggle passed through her lips and her entire personage trembled in a very attractive manner.  I guess a better description would be that she giggled...then jiggled.

She sort of ‘gave me the eye’ and crooked a jiggling finger in a signal for me to follow her beyond my chamber door.  She cast a deeply hypnotic spell, and I followed her every move.

After a thorough inspection of the most important rooms in my 19th century brownstone, she led me into the spacious bath suite.  You might recall that this suite was the last part of the extensive renovation performed upon the brownstone property that I have been restoring with utmost care.  You might also recall that I indicated to you, more than once, that I often felt I was not alone within the walls of this three-story townhouse.

Once inside the bathroom suite, my Emerald Lady (for that is the endearing name I have since given her) found it necessary to gently caress each fixture and appliance.  She even dawdled with the handle on the loo. 

She must have been especially fond of the Jacuzzi tub, for she cautiously lifted her long, flowing skirt and demurely stepped into its confines.  When she settled herself comfortably into its depths, she turned her head upon her shoulder, flashed me a seductive smile, and extended her arms towards me in a most brazen display of carnal intent. 

In my pounding desire to see my Emerald Lady more clearly, I hit the massive lighting control panel and flooded the suite with blinding wattage.  It took just mere seconds to blink and adjust my eyes.  But, alas, in just that tiny sliver of time, I found that she had vanished.

With a heavy heart, I slapped the switches of the panel.  The suite plunged into the deepest darkness, and the deepest sadness I have ever encountered.

I dragged myself towards the kitchen upon the strength provided by my ravenous desire for Key Lime Pie. 

There was no longer the greenish glow of the Emerald Lady to light my way.  I was forced to engage every light switch.  The journey was torture, but my quest for the procurement of the pie drove me far beyond human endurance. 

I set the pie upon the table and devoured it with relish.  My mind fought to accept the reality of the night’s encounter.  Thus, I realized that I could not return to restful sleep unless I returned to my lady’s vanishing point.

I re-entered the bath suite and embraced the darkness.  I willed the Emerald Lady to return.  She did not.

I, once again, flooded the suite with mega-wattage and walked to the Jacuzzi.  To my utter delight, I found it brimming with green Jell-O.  My Emerald Lady was real!  My Emerald Lady had left me a sign of her existence. 

I am not crazy.  I am more sane than you can ever hope to be. 

You, sir, are a QUACK!  U. R. A. Drake, indeed!

Please rid your files of my records. 

My Emerald Lady and I will rendezvous as often as she permits.  And if, as I suspect, my phobic episodes have been caused by food allergies; then so be it. 

I will pick and choose and diagnose myself, but my refrigerator will necessarily contain a never ending supply of Key Lime Pie.  And that is why my bathtub is full of green Jell-O.

________________

I. M. Verde, Esq.



Now I lay me down with grief.

I pray The Lord, please let me sleep.

If I should shrink before I awake,

I pray The Lord my clothes to take.

It’s not so much that clothing clutters;

It’s just material, in bulk, that matters.

Such yardage, bondage of yon stark seat,

Designed to clad the cellulite.

The muted shades, the basic black,

My closet does a garden lack.

No flowery garb or bright hues sing

Of carefree days or careless fling.

Oh, Lord, return my sleek, svelte shell.

Oh, Lord, please keep me from the well.

Of pasta, bread, all goodies, more,

Oh, Lord, please slap me in the store.

Confuse me not, damn fashion trends.

My bulky waist just will not bend.

If famine comes, I will survive.

There’s much to burn.  I’ll stay alive.

But must it really come to that?

I’d rather dream-away the fat.

My prayer is, thus, laid at your feet.

Don’t force me to rely on sheets.

To swaddle is no longer chic.

Good God, I’ve finally reached my peak.

Inspire, now, some science mass.

And melt the flesh right off my ass.

Amen!

Burp, burp, burp resounded the burrito-filled mass of humanity at the local Taqueria one night.

'twas just a simple syncopated rhythm within 'em.  But the whining wails of the EMS sirens did not quell the mass hysteria.  And the cadence of the sirens whoop-whoops harmonized with the rumbling sound of airy regurgitation and the crescendo of staccato expellation(*).

Oh, the cruel, cruel comedic finger of fate did visit upon the appetites of many sorry souls that sad, spicy, salsa-tinged eve. 

The saucy secretary supped alongside the excruciatingly exacting executive. 

A bevy of babbling Bimbos and Bimbettes(*) blew blowzy kisses to the bodaciously buff boys of the construction crew. 

A fractious family of five fought over a scanty serving of garishly green guacamole. 

Noticeably noxious was the gargantuan group from Heavenly Haven Senior Sailors' Marina.  Their silver-tipped noggins nodded and bobbed as they were besieged by bubbling burps. 

Too polite to loosen their bombastic barrage, these colorfully coordinated compadres tempered the rising tide by boldly employing bodily containment. 

Alas, it was for naught, as the ancient Gobs and their weathered Gobettes did later attest. 

All Hell broke in unison past those barnacled bellies.  Yes, the containment level was breached, and a boffo, basso-profundo chorus declared its presence with scented vigor. 

A plethora of Paparazzi responded to record every nuance of emotion.  The National Guard's guerrilla squad arrived, masked and ready to revive all who were felled by the fumes of flatulence. 

The singularity of the situation became a rallying cry to pharmacists far and near:

   "In fizzy form or chalky chew,

   Bring it, thus, to heal the mewl

   Of young and old (especially old)

   Who thought it macho

   To follow nacho

   With potent burrito –

   Loaded with borracho-soaked beans."        

   The call was answered. 

   The doses divvied. 

   The masses bowed, and sought the privy. 

   A simple sigh surfed breathy waves

   And blessed the saviors with accolades. 

   For one must never doubt the might

   Of beany(*) bon-bons late at night.

So wags the end of another "Cheeky Chihuahua Tale."  

(Disclaimer: No animals or humans were severely harmed during this episode.  Words and spelling(*), however, appeared at the mercy and whim of the author.)



We were, once, a serendipitous nation

Lost in arrogance

And bathed in honorable righteousness.

We bowed to no one.

But bent our knees to our God.

Yet, understanding drew us upright.

We fed, clothed, and defended an entire world.

Most were grateful.

Some barely remember us.

We reached out to many

And blessed them with opportunity.

Yet, many now spit on our outstretched hand.

We once fought within ourselves.

The wounds still fester.

The generations want their division of wealth.

We begin to repeat ourselves in destructive ways.

Disenchanted insiders cheer disruptive outsiders.

The world eagerly applauds our dilemma.

We tremble and trip over honorable righteousness.

We are lost in others’ arrogance.

We were, once, a serendipitous nation.

I stood by the Well and considered my thirst.

The Pump seemed rusted and doubt stabbed my parched, burning greed.

Shall I try for just a few drops of that precious resource?

Or shall I siphon madly and drain the fragile Host?

Just one more chance might be all I get.

And, yet, my arrogant, privileged life has taught me...

That there will always be another drop, another scam, another feeding frenzy

Towards fulfilling my continued existence.