To the Owner of the Peyote I Ate Last Night

Dear Owner of the Peyote I Ate Last Night,

I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what to say, other than I'm sorry I stole your Peyote and ate it.

I'd been watching its progress. I know they're not indigenous to this region--Wikipedia says so--and you put it in the cutest little terracotta pot, so clearly you meant to enjoy it at some point. That will not be happening, because I got trashed, stole your cactus, cut it up and ate it. And then puked like a motherfucker.

In my defense, I am insane. I don't know what else to tell you. Is it the full moon? My doctor says no. He says that while the moon is powerful enough to move quadrillion killogallons of ocean water around, it has no affect on my chemistry whatsoever, and really, what I ought to do is take the brand of Flouride-based brain medicine whose logo is all around his office. He's the expert.

It did not go totally to waste, as I had a dream that I was a talking anus who said some very sagelike things. Email me, and I'll share them with you.

Toodles,
E.

To Joey "The Ranger"

Dear Joey "The Ranger,"

You're sweet. I sense that, deeply, and not because I have magical, new-age, psychic abilities, but because you seemed so nice when you asked if you could take me out into the woods and photograph me naked. Just you and I. Far from civilization, where no one can hear my screams.

That said, I do not believe you--a man of 55 with a large pot belly, atrophied limbs and not enough wherewithall to recall the color or location of his car--are an Airborne Ranger set to head to the Middle East on another tour of duty next month for which you will be paid 50 million dollars. In fact, hon, I think that's a bit of a whopper.

Cordially,
E.