From a Letter To A Friend

My Dear Man,

Yes—I called around Memorial Day weekend, in order to remind you not to forget our troops. Personally, I never forget them. Not for one second. Even as I write this they are hacking through the vines of my brain with machetes, bivouacking in my cranial folds, rationing biscuits among my neural dendrites. Our troops are cursing up a storm in my medulla oblongata, playing Texas Hold ‘Em with erotic playing cards. An ectoplasmic Bob Hope is doing a USO show in my frontal lobe, while Rita Hayworth shimmies in a floor-length Hermes gown. I try not to forget about our troops because if they were to forget about me, even for an instant, I would not be here writing to you. For it is by the will of our troops only that I have air in my lungs, and by their dispensation that blood courses through my veins. Who, gazing upon a peacock-blue sky or the distant, crenellated mountains, cannot discern the mark of our troops upon them? Why, even the tiniest flower bears their seal, their signature!

Lately, though, I have been somewhat troubled by certain...signs. For example, yesterday, while commuting to work, I was standing upon a streetcorner upon which it is my custom to stand of a morning, awaiting the bus. Yesterday, as you may remember, there were heavy rains throughout the morning, and the gutters were flooded to overflowing. All of a sudden, as I stood there, a minivan passed by close to the curb, splashing me with water, ruining my merino wool pants and my fine English shoes. At first I thought nothing of it, so occupied was I with wiping the mud from my shoes...but as the day progressed, an impish thought nagged at me, drive it away though I would: If, I reasoned, our troops are both Good and Always Thinking About Me, and if having one’s merino wool pants and fine English shoes ruined by a passing minivan are Bad, as I think you will agree they are, then how could this event ever have occurred?

With considerable mental effort, I managed to expunge this thought, but it left me badly shaken. This morning I arose early and headed for town, where I purchased a large quantity of yellow adhesive ribbons reading “Support Our Troops.” These I have affixed to many of my belongings, including my priceless T’ang Dynasty sugar bowl, in case doubt should again overtake me, and I forget by whose leave I live to enjoy these possessions. I advise you, as your friend, to do the same.

Sincerely,

Jason Gots