Dearest Sister
Dearest sister,
Having just perused your missive of the 12th, I am responding with haste to assure you that I am in good health and relatively good spirits. The upset stomach with which I was contending still plagues me and restricts my travels, but I am sure it will pass, and with its passing shall come more freedom. I hope that this letter finds you well and that the boil is no longer such a distraction.
The season drags on. I fear I will be haunted by the sharp whistles, sneaker squeaks and high-pitched screams for the rest of my days. I will not speak of the true horror I have witnessed; it is not for one with as gentle a nature as you. However, I will say that the Harmotto Debacle truly made me want to hurl my Ho-Hos. Nittany Lions, my ass! More like the Nittany Cheetahs!
Doc has warned me not to dwell on such things. The blood pressure has reached new highs, as the belly reaches new lows. Shall we speak of happier events? We both know that for every bee sting there is honey being spread on some child’s zweiback. Or wheat thins. Or carrots. There are some weird children out there. So what brings light into my otherwise bleak existence? Well, Ho-Hos, of course. Unhurled Ho-Hos, that is. And superbly played volleyball, such as was played in Madison last weekend (notwithstanding the Harmotto Kerfuffle), and such as is being played in any Pac10 gym you might wander into. Oh, to be living in that land of plenty instead of this lifeless and wretched tundra of inferior volleyball!
The days pass ever so slowly and with them my desire to return to my family grows stronger. Except for that little cur of a brother! And Aunt Tilda, of course. Some days I doubt I will ever lay eyes on any of you again. Some days I seriously think of turning to the bottle for solace. Some days I just go to the Pavilion and yell at the refs or Mark Rosen.
Lastly, it is with great regret I must inform you that cousin Jimmy will not be coming home. I told him to pay attention during warmups, but would he listen? I will spare you the details except to say they aren't going to use that ball again.
Your loving brother,
(R)
Having just perused your missive of the 12th, I am responding with haste to assure you that I am in good health and relatively good spirits. The upset stomach with which I was contending still plagues me and restricts my travels, but I am sure it will pass, and with its passing shall come more freedom. I hope that this letter finds you well and that the boil is no longer such a distraction.
The season drags on. I fear I will be haunted by the sharp whistles, sneaker squeaks and high-pitched screams for the rest of my days. I will not speak of the true horror I have witnessed; it is not for one with as gentle a nature as you. However, I will say that the Harmotto Debacle truly made me want to hurl my Ho-Hos. Nittany Lions, my ass! More like the Nittany Cheetahs!
Doc has warned me not to dwell on such things. The blood pressure has reached new highs, as the belly reaches new lows. Shall we speak of happier events? We both know that for every bee sting there is honey being spread on some child’s zweiback. Or wheat thins. Or carrots. There are some weird children out there. So what brings light into my otherwise bleak existence? Well, Ho-Hos, of course. Unhurled Ho-Hos, that is. And superbly played volleyball, such as was played in Madison last weekend (notwithstanding the Harmotto Kerfuffle), and such as is being played in any Pac10 gym you might wander into. Oh, to be living in that land of plenty instead of this lifeless and wretched tundra of inferior volleyball!
The days pass ever so slowly and with them my desire to return to my family grows stronger. Except for that little cur of a brother! And Aunt Tilda, of course. Some days I doubt I will ever lay eyes on any of you again. Some days I seriously think of turning to the bottle for solace. Some days I just go to the Pavilion and yell at the refs or Mark Rosen.
Lastly, it is with great regret I must inform you that cousin Jimmy will not be coming home. I told him to pay attention during warmups, but would he listen? I will spare you the details except to say they aren't going to use that ball again.
Your loving brother,
(R)
Labels: Ho-Hos
posted by (R)uffda! at
11:52 AM
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