Editor's Note: For some reason, Jackie has taken a keen interest in the professional journal "Intercom," which has mysteriously started showing up at his condo, addressed to a former tenant. "Intercom" is the official monthly publication of the Society for Technical Communication (the professional association for technical writers). The article Jackie is referring to is "...", about >>>>>>>>.

Dear STC Poobah,

Girls Wit Grass Skirtz! My thoughts, exackly!

I was wondrously bemuzed enough in reading your talented and exuberant think-a-piece, "The Grass ROots of Hula... or whateva the hell it was" and I came-a thinking.

Say, if they would print writeups about Luau Gals in the HI-50, why not my long-dust-laden muse-piece on the ancient, though sometimes unnecessary pastime of squeezin' girl's butts?!

Not unintentionally, I might ad! Nowadays, with alla dat "He did Me This," "She Squeeled on Dat" goin down, you don't hanker much back to da days of my hey-day, da nine-teen fawties. Now dem dares was a decade...

Now I don't mind tellin' ya back then we didn't hew no smudge to da fine art o' goil-pinchin'. I remember one Friday afternoon, none udda den da young, demure Lucy Ball herself comes butt-first inna my office, mutterin' something about "that two-timing slick-backed wetback." Now I can take a hint wit da best a dem, so I casually grabbed her ample boxcar wit BOTH hands, gentlemanly croonin' in her ear what waz soon to become my first numba-one hit, "Droppin Da Bomb for Darla."

I know it was only outta wifely fililiatude that she barrelled around and clobbered my puss wit a round-house to do cheek, but just between you-and-me-and-da-drunken-preacher, it was obvious #&151; SHE WANTED IT.

Ah, yes, doze golden old days. So now dey's all up in the arms about that weight-lifter fella from Germany what they got now as the backup governor of Cally. What-the-hoozit izzat?

I'm not saying that bein' beefy don't make a man qualified ta run things, but when I was on the other side o' thirty I went my rounds a few. That, I did with none other than Milton O'Poole, former sparring partner and some-time wannabe trainer to none udda den the late, Great, Don't-call-me-late, Joe "da Brown Bomber" Louis. Milty had told me he gave old Joe the what-for a coupla times way back when. Of course, that was before the stroke.

Never the mind you, what I'm trying to say is, Grass-Skirts, Tumbleweeds, Whatever-the-hey is in fashion wit da mobs, dese days, you always gotta go home to the bank with one olive cart, and dat, my friend, is the Olive Cart Named Love.

And you can print dat one wit dis humbly provided 6 x 10 glossy (jackass printers) autographed by nun udda den the yours Truly.

Peace to you and all your Typewriter-fancier friends. I hope this club of yours really gets off da ground someday.

Love and Liquor,

Your pal,

- JACKIE!

The Editor of Intercom replies:

Dear Mr. Starlight,

Normally I wouldn't bother to respond to a rambling, irrelevant missive such as yours. I see that your talent for incomprehesiblity appliees not only to your so-called "music" but to writing as well.

However, your frequent attempts to leave voice messages at our office have pretty much brought work here to a halt. You've successfully brought down not only our phone system, but out e-mail system and, inexplicably, our fax machines.

Therefore, I capitulate. If you'll promise to stop calling, I'll print your letter of Oct. 28 in our magazine, along with the oddly elongated photo you attached.

Now, will you cease holding us hostage?

Sincerely,

Maurice Martin
Intercom magazine