For Al Frankin
Dear Mr. Limbaugh,
Overweight, yes, but I tend to think it suits you well, like mascara on a nationalistic pig, a cheap trick that works much better on radio than television, full hips. I love your lips and the way you cast a spell and perform magic tricks on stars and witches. You must be a sweetheart in bed, spread eagle and open to any style. I assume you like to bark—woof woof. Please, Mr. Limbaugh, have patience. The best part comes next.
I found the passenger record for John Limbaugh, a guy from France who arrived at Ellis Island on May 6th, 1900. The ship he sailed, La Champagne, was built by Compagnie Generale Transatlantique, St. Nazaire, France, 1885. It was shipwrecked off the coast of St. Nazaire on April 28, 1915. He was the only Limbaugh to land in America as far as I can tell.
My Aunt Shelly prefers cigars to men just as much as you prefer them to women. She’s a lunatic, of course. Sometimes I think she’s really a man like you, all meaty and full-throttled, and just as erratic. Mom thinks Aunt Shelly’s a lesbian, which I guess makes you one too. But that’s just not true. In fact she loves men just as much as she loves pork, at least that’s what Aunt Shelly said. Mr. Limbaugh, do you like men?
Mr. Limbaugh, please be frank. Are you French? I will love you the same, my soft mound of clay, planet napkin full of lust. Didn’t our ancestors arrive in the same boat?
I promise the possible. I swear I won’t interfere with your past radio transmissions, which are headed for black holes in outer space anyway, which must be why you’re like a spinning hulked up Black Eyed Pea of a neutron star on speed, or worse—Britney Spears on MTV. Show me a world without dance and I’ll show you Apocalypse.
Captain America, I know, I’m a mess just like you and Apple Pie. But I don’t pretend to know the future of the Statue of Liberty. I’m wearing a cute long sleeve white cotton dress today, embroidered tulips. My grandfather always said women have two. It’s already 10 AM and I can see the moon faint. I’m wearing red sneakers and a carnation corsage. My favorite color is ecru.
Sweet Pea, Mom and I are getting ready to hit the Unitarian Church before we head to the Universal Church of Christ. We’re not religious but she likes the concept of multiple partners and the power of doughnuts.
What do you think the future will be, Mr. Limbaugh—illusion or spin? Shadows or stones? By future I mean will it be pretty much fair. Gay rights or Armageddon? Healthcare or cannibalism?
Mr. Limbaugh, are you related to the Limbaugh from France, the guy who traveled thousands of miles across a sexless ocean for a chance at liberty? Would you recognize your pretty little face in his? Would he recognize you in his mirror?
Mr. Limbaugh, I beg you to cancel your tour of the West. I’ve captured short wave transmissions of sexed up senator vampires and Christian kings plotting your end. I won’t judge you so harsh Mr. Limbaugh if you gave up. I’ve got fetishes just like you.
Yes, I’m trying to keep my eye on you but you move too fast in the nightlight my little playboy bunny. I’ve said this before—I love the chicken dance. I love the way it unleashes the inner goddess. Want to have some fun, Mr. Limbaugh? Sit and listen to R.E.M. Sit and mind the cars passing outside your window. I know you’re just a boy but I suspect you like to dance even though you won’t admit it. Beyonce wishes you were a better man. But I wish you were just a girl full of love.