Dear Wigleaf,

You said you were going to come down for Mardi Gras and you never showed. What the fuck, man?

I'm writing you from a Louisiana house where all the windows leak. Down the block is Ms. Judy Brown, my favorite neighbor. She is 83 years old and I find her sitting on her porch, watching the pervert across the street and chain-smoking cigarettes in her nightie like a badass. When I visit, she tells me about her Creole mama and her football star husband. She tells me about her dead daughter who lost a leg to the diabetes. For years, Judy Brown's daughter walked around with a prosthetic limb. God, I wish I had a prosthetic limb. Do you know the number of windpipes I would crush? I would paint racing stripes on it, I'd take it off to frighten children. I would be like, "WATCH OUT, KIDS. DON'T DO THE MARIJUANA OR THIS WILL HAPPEN TO YOU TOO!!!" And then you and I would jump the chain-link fence surrounding the tennis courts and lie down on our backs on the cool green gravel there, pass a joint back and forth and laugh and laugh and laugh. Someday, Wigleaf. Someday. God I miss you.

Anyhow. Judy Brown has her dead daughter's fake leg in her house somewhere, still. I guess she's not sure where. When you come visit, we'll help her look for it. Okay?



PS Send money

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Read DN's "My Man."

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