Piercing the gloom along the path the nation has chosen, I received the following correspondence from Alphonse Fontenot, and thought it might bring a smile:
Ma Dear Fran,
Me I’m happy for you to read ma letter, but I know you sad ’bout dem election. So here’s a little story ’bout ma uncle. He’s da one dat got how you call, a glass eye. And it’s not da right size no, so sometimes dat eye just pop right out o’ his head. Dat’s we call him Popeye! Last week Uncle Popeye was out on Bayou LaFourche fishing wif dem dynamite. He was pulling in a lot o’ fish when da Sheriff walk up beside him and say, “Now Popeye, you know it’s against da law to use dynamite to fish! Me I’m gonna have to brought you in.” So Uncle Popeye, he reach over real calm like an light another stick o’ dynamite, hand it to da Sheriff and say, “Now Sheriff, you tell me, are we gonna stand here all day and talk, or are we gonna fish?” Sometime you just gotta light dem stick!
You mamber Popeye’s little boy named Poot Poot? Da one dat taught he could fly when he was a little boy child so he jump out da tree and break bof arm? He made da newspaper a few days ago when a Hells Angel crash his motorcycle in Poot Poot’s front yard. Da news say da Hells Angel was wearing his leather jacket backwards since da zipper broke and he was cold. Poot Poot, he called da state police and told dem ’bout da crash. Da State Trooper ask, “Is he showing any signs of life?” “Well,” said Poot Poot, “he was until I turned his head around da right way.” I worry ’bout dat boy.
And of course, Boudreaux and Marie got segregated again. Dey was sitting at da bar last Friday night when Marie saw her ex at the other end of dem bar, drunk as a skunk. She told Boudreaux, “Dat man been drinking ever since I left him 10 years ago!” But Boudreaux, he say nobody celebrates dat much! Dat’s when Marie knock da taste out o’ his mouf, along with two teef. Dey took her to da hoosegow and him to da doctor.
Speaking of doctors, I need to find a new one. I had me a check up two weeks ago, and da doctor told me I had to get a urinalysis. But I told da doctor dat I don’t got much educate no, and I don’t know dem big words. And wouldn’t you know dat doctor told me to go pee in a bottle? So I told him to go fart in a jug, and now I need a new doctor.
Oh! While I was at da clinic dere, I saw Mother Angelica running down da hallway lookin’ all nerval and saying da rosary real fast. I asked her doctor what happened, and he said, “Me I jus’ told her she’s expecting a baby.” “Is she really?” I asked. “Mais no,” he said, “but it sure cured her hiccups.”
Speaking of people expecting, did you hear dat Batille is stagnant again some more? Me I tink she’s gonna double da consensus of Evangeline Parish all by herself! Her husband Thibodeaux, he say he got it figured out. He say when dey go to bed at night, every time he hang his pants on da bedpost, she comes down wif da knock up. He say dat from now on, he gonna leave his pants on da hook instead. But dey make a happy couple, and she gives him lots o’ warmth and affliction.
Me I have to bring my close to dis line because LSU is playing on TV. I asked ma fran what da score was, and he said, “It’s 7 to 10.” asked who’s winning, and he said, “Da 10.” He’s slow on da uptake. And mamber, ma fran, sometimes you jus’ gotta light dem stick! I pray dat God bless more hell outta you.
P.S. I was gonna send da money I owe you, but I already lick dem envelope.
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