Postcards From the Edge
- Wade & Laura
Hi Uncle Richard,
Mom and Dad told me that you're going to be staying at Whispering Pines for a little while. I guess I don't know what "rehab" really means, but I think President Bush did it for a while, and he seemed to turn out okay. Dad said something about "drying out"--my soccer season can't start until some of the mud goes away so I guess we're looking forward to the same thing, huh? Anyway, I hope you're having a good time.
Thank you for the postcard. It's probably good that your parents are keeping you informed, although I have to wonder what else they're telling you if you think President Bush turned out okay. Not sure that "having a good time" is exactly what's going on here. Remember how much you hated summer camp? Whispering Pines is sort of like that: lots of rules about what you can't do/have/eat, counselors checking on you all that time, and stupid required group activities with stupid people you hope you'll never see again. Thanks again for writing.
P.S. When you were at summer camp, did your mom ever send you care packages?
Boy, did I ever hate summer camp. Do they make you do a lot of climbing? And shower (naked!) in front of your friends? One time we were supposed to do a hike up some hill but I pretended I was sick and stayed in my bunk and read a book. We also had to do a lot of stupid arts and crafts projects, which I hated but it was fun burning the corn husk dolls that I made. Oh, Mom was watching Oprah (she loves Oprah) yesterday and a man who wrote a book about being in rehab was on. All the people in the audience were booing him. Are people going to boo you when you get out of rehab?
P.S. Yeah, Mom sent me an entire box of Swiss Cake Rolls. Do you want me to send you a box of Swiss Cake Rolls?
Instead of climbing, we're going to have to do something called a "challenge course." I think there's climbing involved, but supposedly the goal is learning to trust the people around you. If you'd met some of these losers, you'd know immediately how unlikely that's going to be. There are stupid arts and crafts projects here, too, and that's not the only thing I'd like to burn--which reminds me: Any chance you could send a box of Swiss Cake Rolls but, as a special treat for your favorite uncle, add some of your father's cigarettes? Probably no need to tell him--he'd just worry, and we don't need that.
Thanks in advance,
P.S. I'm guessing your delightful Aunt Sylvia will boo me when I get out of here, much as she has these last 13 years.
Your camp doesn't sound like very much fun. Can you tell them that you're homesick and miss the things that they don't have at camp? I missed my XBOX and my cat, Trudy. Dad read your last postcard before giving it to me, and he said that I can't send you any of his Camels. He did tell me to ask you if you wanted a case something called O'Dewel's (sp?) sent to you, so let me know if that is something you'd like along with the Swiss Cake Rolls. He said that you needed to straighten up and fly right-- are you taking pilot lessons?
P.S. Aunt Sylvia came over to the house a couple of days ago. She seemed so happy, she was laughing all the time. I guess she's excited about flying in a plane with you after you get your pilot's license.
Look, Josh. Maybe this aw-shucks-I'm-just-a-kid routine is cute to your parents (those neocon fascists who help put me here) but I'm not buying it. You're trying to tell me that a 12-year-old doesn't have his own cigarettes? For that matter, you should have already offered to send me whatever filthy little magazines you've got shoved under your mattress, plus the Beam I know you sneak from your friends' parents (since your pure-as-the-driven-snow mother won't keep alcohol in the house). So you know what? Screw you and your fucking postcards.
P.S. The next time you see your Aunt Sylvia, you can tell that crackwhore that I know she was fucking my former law partner.
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