Watercolor by Oona Austin
MESSAGE FROM DR. ME
Who wrote the Book of Me? I did, and some of it as late as last night. This is not old words and imprecations from old people with sheeps and parting seas. No. This stuff is new. As new as a freshly sharpened pencil and some clean white stationary from the Blue Mechanism Motel in Many Farms, laid down on the flat cover of the Book of Morons (never open this book!) and written upon with clean, looped writing worthy of a Pastor of the Nineteenth of Suffering Centuries.
Who am I? I’m Dr. Me, that’s who. Who wrote the Book of Me? Hell, I did.
I’m back, praise the Lord, and the reason – the pure and simple reason – that I’m not the old dying Dr. Me, or the old Jailbird Dr. Me, or the babe-chasing Tennessee Walker Dr. Me, is purely and simply because of the new Mrs. Dr. Me.
Oh, she was there. You saw her on the TV. She was the babe I was chasing on the bicycle, remember? She was the babe who led the choir, who sang “God Walks the Dark Hills” yet did not sound much like Vestal Goodman, more’s the pity. But she was good in the office and is a genius at organization.
She’s the boss now. And don’t you forget it.
And keep sending the pitiful amounts of money you can take away from your pathetic lives so that we may continue to make payments on the Castle in Costa Rica and you should see what she has planned for the interiors. As well, she has quite a flair for interior decoration.
Ok, she’s only twenty, that’s true.
And she’s convinced me that I don’t need the operation, that your prayers and checks are enough. My imaginary illness has been healed.
You can take that to the bank. It’s in the Book. The Book of Me.
I have been appointed Emporer of Arizona, but I do not want the job. I like listening to RadioNow out of Funfuntown because I think that guy Bebop Loco is a laugh riot. I have a new blackboard that is actually white that you’ll see on TV and I plan to make a huge, incomprehensible jumble of lines and Hebrew words to concoct a story about Absalom and Abraham and multiples of sevens and occurrences and even sheep and herding them and slaughtering them and sacrificing them and fathering them and marrying them and having them send a lot of money to me and the new Dr. Mrs. Me.
I’m giving up. She’s in charge, she’s got the stomach for it.
Oh, and we need about three thousand Kings of Solomon (those of you who have already given us ten thousand dollars or more) to get down to the Cathedral – the one on Andy Devine Boulevard in Kingman, not the one that burned down in Winslow – because the damn roof leaks and Johnny Vacation, the weatherman, says the Mother of all Floods is coming. We’re going to need at least three thousand Kings of Solomon to hold the tarp. And then we need cute high school girls to answer the phones.
Not too cute, she is quick to point out.
(If you’d like to look at the latest Ed Woodpecker Chapter, click here: Fireblog)