Dear Madame Govnah’
The Honorable Ms. Staci Simpson, M.A. (multiple), J.D., MD, Ph.D.
State Governance, Corruption, and Lobbying District Level 4
1600 Crab Claw Way NW
Hagerstown, West Maryland, 113°34’56’’
The Outerlands of the American State System (O-ASS)
Amazon Corporate Confederacy, District NA-003
Milky Way Galaxy, Star Sector S11, Planet E-III
Thursday, August 14, 2105.
Re: Request to defer admission into Level I Learning Center for our daughter Victoria, age 3.958
Dear Madame Governor,
My name is Arlo Ames-Martinez. My wife, Dr. Veronica Martinez, our only daughter, Victoria, and I have recently been transferred to the Greater ex-Baltimore refugee and resettlement camp, which lies within the boundaries of the New Hamden Township, a utopian community of academics and farmers being constructed on former farmland and on important military battlefield sites dating back as far as the eighteenth century. We are all grateful for the food, used clothing, and extreme survival tent housing gear that your new administration has been providing. Thank you! We know that the costs of rebuilding after the last new rounds of Mid-Atlantic earthquakes, tsunamis, megalighting cyclones, and tectonic shapeshifts truly have been staggering.
The reason for my writing to you today, Madame Governor, is with a request that you consider overturning a recent ruling by the West Maryland State Education and Technology Services Department that our daughter, Victoria, be placed as a G1-level student into the Druid Hill Academy’s “Gifted Girls” accelerated learning module starting on September, 1, 2105, whose date is now rapidly approaching. My earlier and repeated efforts to make contact with the Level I Learning Center parent-teacher disputes resolution help desk at the new federal government offices in the Greenbriar Resort’s O-ASS Federal Governance, Fossil Fuels Refinement, and Male Chauvinists-Only Entertainment Center have been entirely unsuccessful. I also tried writing to our new Corporate Congressman from the Pennsylvania Dutch delegation about this matter, but as of this writing, I have yet to receive a reply.
As you know, the wholesale restructuring of the American education system from top to bottom initially was prompted by the New Learning Movement of the 2090s. It was the 90s, after all, and idealists, heirloom seed collectors, folksong preservations, and neo-librarians helped significantly in the 2099 Elections to bring the Black Amish Power Party into office. I was directly involved in that wave of progressive social activism, despite the physical threats to my person that I, a 5th generation Appalachian-American of diverse heritage, had to face on the streets of the Greenbriar, and as I am aggrieved to say, also in our beautiful new capital city upon the hill in Hagerstown. I tell you this not because I am asking you for a favor, Madame Governor, in quid pro quo exchange for my efforts at aiding your successful election campaign to become the first bisexual African-American woman to hold the highest office in our battered and bruised but not beaten state. We may call it “West Maryland” now in deference to the millions of our fellow citizens who perished in the Great Eastern Shore Shapeshift of 2089, but to me, it is – and remains – a single united place, a state for the living AND the dead, and that for me is the great state of Maryland.
Madame Governor, I know that you are single mother of an amazing son, Spencer, whom is I believe two years older than my daughter. We recently had the pleasure to meet with Spencer at one of the Cloud Computing and Predictive Analytics summer school boot camps that my wife hosts each year at the new Cumberland Gap Refuge campus of the Johns Hopkins University 2.0. My wife tells me that your son, at age 6, is already completing coding and encryption exercises that she usually assigns to G11s entering their first year of study in an LIII learning center. And he is so tall and strikingly handsome as well, if I might state facts that for you as his mother must certainly be obvious.
You allowed your son to become a G1 at age 4, if I understand it correctly, which is almost exactly the age my daughter is now. Actually, she will turn 4 on September 3 of this year, so technically she is still 3 11/12 or whatever fractional number Vic prefers to use these days, when the summer August heats are causing the camp food garden to explode in a veritable avalanche of fruits, vegetables, culinary herbs, homeopathic flowers, and various types of rare heirloom cannabis. I am overseeing the Camp Food, Fermentation, and Medicinal Plant Center this year, so I’m quite busy with work at the moment, as of course is my wife, especially since she is now the Director of the Level IV Learning Center in Cumberland Gap Refuge that just opened its doors last May, following a grand opening ceremony that even of new O-ASS President, Donald Trump XIV, as well as the new acting viceroy of the Appalachian Mountains coal mining penal colony and meth addiction work treatment center was able to attend. The first Level IV Learning Center of its kind in the entire tri-state area! What a triumph for you and your team!
As you can see from what I have already written, the Martinez family, of which I am the titular head, is not averse at all to the need for higher education and lifetime learning. However, my wife and I both strongly feel that our young Victoria is too young to begin her G1 year in the fall at Druid Hill Academy, despite the fact that we live close enough for her 95 year old Jewish-Mexican grandmother to walk her to and from school all 7 days of the week. Given her advanced age, however, and the fact that our savings have all been invested in rehabilitating a historic, 250-year old farmhouse at the western edge of the New Hampden Township, close to where the Community College greenhouses and cannabis plantations are being built, we would rest more easily knowing that our beloved daughter could stay with her abuela for at least a few years longer, rather than be forced to spend 10 hour days 7 days a week, 350 days a year, cooped up in the “Zoo,” which is the nickname they give to the Druid Hill Lower School Levels G1-G5.
Madame Governor, I am an Appalachian hillbilly at heart, despite being married to a brilliant computer scientist whose own Jewish side of the family fled to Mexico City following the Holocaust in the mid-twentieth century. We are raising our only daughter to be proud of all sides of her heritage. We want her to grow big and strong and have a spirit of freedom and adventure. We want her to love being a Marylander and a “gifted girl” advanced learner, but we also just want her to love being a girl. A girl who loves to climb trees and drive around on her new Newt10 eScooter. The box said “for ages 6 and up,” but she took to it like a dream, and as I said before, she’s still only 3. For a few more precious weeks, anyway.
Maybe my daughter isn’t cut out to be a Level IV learner. Maybe not even a Level III. I want her to begin her G1 studies only at age 8, which is the maximum age allowed under the new educational guidelines to keep her from school. By the time she reaches G10 and graduates from New Druid Hill Academy’s Level II Upper School (the “Conservancy”), I as a father want to rest easy knowing that she will have turned 18 in the fall of her final year of high school. And that, as a newly minted young woman, Victoria can decide for herself where she will go and what she will do next.
Madame Governor, I know that right now the date September 3, 2120 seems so far off into the future that we can hardly imagine what our lives then will be – or even IF we will be alive to greet it. But, you see Madame Governor, I plan to do everything in my earthly human powers not only to be alive on that all-important date of September 3, 2120, but that I will there as a FATHER to wrap my daughter up in my arms and hug her and tell her how much that I love her.
Lilo one of my all-time favorite classical animated movie characters, said to the veterinarian regarding her adoption of the alien, Stitch, that “I paid $1 for him, and now I own him, and if you take him from me, that’s stealing.” I feel the same way about my daughter, Victoria. I come from a family of cinephiles, Madame Governor, and we have loved the movies ever since some of my distant Appalachian kinsfolk landed small non-speaking parts in “Matewan,” by the great director John Sayles, and in “Coal Miner’s Daughter,” with singer Loretta Lynn played by the late great actress, Sisey Spacek. Watching classical movies, TV shows, and the early digital streaming services of the twenty first and twenty-second centuries is a way that I connect with a child who sometimes seem to care nothing at all for the things her father does and loves, especially heirloom seed cultivation and volunteering in public folksong archives.
Madame Governor, our daughter, Victoria. loves watching movies with her grandmother as well, especially Spanish and Yiddish language ones, and clearly this all has a beneficial impact on her cognitive development, communications, and learning skills. She loves watching “Coco” or “Gone with the Wind: Reloaded” or “John Wick 2” or “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown “ and whatever it is she watches with her grandma. As long as they are together. Some people feel that 3 – going on 4 – is too young to watch often violent and vulgar movies like these. But we do not, and we, when all is said and done, are her parents. And you, our government officials and elected leaders, are not.
Next year, assuming that we’ll close soon on the mortgage for the New Hampden farmhouse on Apple Tree Road, I am going to begin spending two weeks each month volunteering at the Appalachian Springs Heirloom Seed and Folksong Lending Library, which is in a very remote part of North-by-Northwestern Virginia, close to the impact site of the radioactive Greater Elkins Crater. This library lies at the very heart of the West Virginia of old, before the lava flows and strip mining sinkholes and the Ohio River Deluge of ’98 and the more recent Gale Force X wind and lightning events that have taken so much of the Mountain State away; gone as they say, with the winds of change.
I mourn those losses each and every day, but we Appalachians are a proud people, and we do not give up easily, if ever at all. And we teach our children and grandchildren to recite the Latin motto, “montani semper liberi,” which means that we, as mountain people are destined by our Creator and Mother Gaia always and forever to live free. Sometimes, I worry that the almost wholesale takeover of our federal government by GalacticIKEAcorp, by the Meth Matrons, by the Indian-Iberian Casino Coalition, and by the hundreds of other lobbying groups and fossil fuel energy companies and even some of the alternative energy ones will mean that life in the O-ASS won’t be worth living for my daughter’s daughter, or for her daughter’s daughter’s daughter. I fear that our beautiful Vic will want someday to leave and find a newer, better world where she and her friends can all live in closer communication with our non-human planetary residents and where we can learn how to wean ourselves away from the plastics and petroleum products and technological gizmos that keep us tethered and sheltered and coddled from the real things in life, in nature, even the biological processes unfolding inside of our own bodies.
Maybe I am old fashioned, Madame Governor. A banjo-playing, Johnny Appleseed, twenty-first century throwback unable to find his place in a new twenty-second century world that is speeding past me – and Planet Earth – at accelerating velocities rivaling that of light itself. If so, then I am guilty as charged. But I know one thing, and that is what Lilo and Stitch taught me when I was a boy watching them with wonder on our family’s Outernet enabled iMind überdefinition plasma wall screen. Yes, we Appalachian peoples had such things in our homes, back then. Not all of us, of course, but enough to make one think twice before believing too strongly in redneck and white trash stereotypes, which I hope that my daughter will steadfastly refuse to give credence to as well.
Ohana. It means family. That’s what it meant to the Hawaiian people before the horrific Age of Endemic Explosions vaporized their island homes from the surface of the Earth. Ohana means family, and family truly means something to me. As a son of Appalachian peoples. As a husband to a wife of Jewish and Mexican heritage. As father to a brilliant and rambunctious young baby daughter who sees neither color nor creed nor gender nor religion nor race nor fixed biologic nor sexual identities. Our baby … no, our aspiring young adult daughter is a true symbol of the hope and dreams of the new and improved version of the 22nd Century, and not simply a rehashing and recycling of the old.
So, please, please, please, pretty fucking fuck please, Madame Governor, don’t make them come to the resettlement camp where we are still living a hand-to-mouth existence, and we need to stick together as a family if we are to survive. To take away my daughter to rot 10 hours a day, 7 days a week, 350 days each year in a fossil-fuel forged BOX that is more prison than garden would be an abomination!!!!!!!!
I have said my peace. I have sown my seeds. I have dropped my mic. I have drunk my well-aged French wine. And throughout it all, I have told you nothing but the truth, so help me Mother Gaia and all of my many – and I do mean may – Appalachian hill country relatives.
And so, my dear, dear, deardeardearDEAR Madame Govnah, I write you all of this because I just KNOW that you will the right things, based solely on the merits of my case, and not because I have anything of value to offer in return.
Nothing that is, except for the truth, and while I know that our federal government at the Greenbriar Resort may not value the the truth any longer, I just KNOW that a strong black bisexual woman such as yourself who lives in a virtual City of Women atop her shining Hagerstown City of a Hill certainly can handle …….
Yours most sincerely, humbly, respectfully etc etc etc blah blah blah o blahdee blahdee, life goes oooon child, blah blah, blah, life goes on Arloames
Madame Governor, please allow me to I apologize on my husband’s behalf for the abrupt and somewhat awkward way that ended his otherwise articulate and well-crafted letter. My husband can get overemotional at times, and it’s often best if I as his wife intervene on his behalf, confidentially speaking, of course. Arlo, who truly is a kind and generous man, can become overly morose and verbally belligerent at times, especially when he opens a second bottle of after-dinner Beaujolais or white Burgundy, as he most likely did last light, while he was finishing up his letter.
I was not able to proofread and fact-check my husband’s writing last night, as I usually do, because I working late in Cumberland Gap Refuge, digitally marking up G20 Level IV eDissertations in my new senior faculty office suite, sushi bar, and semi-autonmous wine cellar. As a result, I was unable to return home until well after midnight. I found his letter on the living room floor the next morning, after he had left to pick up a new batch of heirloom seeds and vintage, twentieth-century Appalachian folksong sheet music from a local estate sale. After perusing the letter’s contents, I decided it best to prepare this addendum, given the highly sensitive nature of our parental request for a G1 enrollment deferment (up to 48 months) for our only child and daughter, Victoria – a request, by the way, that I as her mother fully support.
Madame Governor, let me get to the point. We need a favor from you to intervene personally with the Education Services Office on iur daughter’s behalf, and I am prepared in exchange to offer you something of equal, if not greater, value in exchange.
So, Madame Governor, shoul you wish to discuss the possibility of your son, Spencer, getting accepted early into a very new and exciting Coding for the 23rd Century rapid response reaction force – a partnership between Hopkins 2.0, Harvard IV, and M.I.T.T., well maybe we could talk about that over drinks – alone – at the Claw and Cork in Hagerstown next Saturday night?
Woman to woman, you understand. We’re both mothers. We understand the way that this dog-eat-dog world of ours works. My Arlo, bless his humungous hillybilly heart, he wears his emotions on his sleeves. But my daughter is going to be different. Smart and self-assured, but also as sharp as a switchblade. Sweet as a Georgia peach, but ready like a Baltimore mama street cat to go in for the kill if it means bringing home food for her kittens or watching helplessly as they slowly starve to death.
Girlfriend, let’s get REAL for a minute, OK? Can we do that?? Let’s drop the Madame Governor this and Madame Governor that BULLshit
Cause’ we Mexican Jewish chicas and bi-curious black bitches from the ‘hood didn’t get given nothin’ What wez got, wez probably earned if not outright stolen. And what we didn’t always deserve, we still managed to get in the end.
My daughter NEEDS to stay at home for 4 more years with her 95 year old abuelita, who is not getting any younger, and spend quality time in the nature and own our new farm with her big-hearted daddy before she sets a FOOT inside of Druid Hill, you feel me? That place IS a zoo!
And your Spencer G2 should be a Spencer G7, given the size of that boy’s brawny black brain. So, again: let’s talk. 23:00 next Saturday at the Claw, the speakeasy C-word part that – as you know – is for lesbian women only. Got that?
My husband will long be asleep by that time, as will abuelita Angela and my daughter Victoria. No one will see me leave. I’ll take my new Armadillo5 eBike. I don’t ride it as much as I like – too much junk in the trunk these days and too much work piled high on my desk – but when I need to get somewhere quick, fast, and under the radar, there is no better ride than the ‘Dillo. Can you imagine what we’d have done with a sweet ride like that back in the Sunken Inner Harbor days if we had welded on waterskis to the chassis instead of the tires? We had a bunch of butch iron workers in the group, if you will recall, and they’d have had those modified hydrobikes on the water in like nothing flat. The Charm City Bombshells wouldn’t have had to take them busboats no more. We’d have been able to gliiiiiiide.
I’ll bet you’re wondering how I can afford a ultraluxury eBike like on a professor’s measly paycheck, aren’t you? I ain’t got the deep pockets of a govna’h, that much is definitely true. Let me break it down for you, sistah. I bought the ‘Dillo with some grey money I got from the feds for some highly sensitive cloud computing consulting work on the side; nothing illegal, exactly. But not entirely ethical either.
Why I am writing you all this? This handwritten letter is in my sole possession, and no one – not even my husband – has read the postscript. I’ll have it delivered by stealth drone at a time when the police scanners aren’t watching the back side entrances next to the automated municipal trash disposals. I’ll arrange with the Comp Lit Bitches 24/7 all-lesbian courier service to stash it in an unmarked manila folder behind the framed picture of Whoopi Goldberg that hangs in the Lesbian Hall of Heroines display in your office. It will be waiting there for you even before you’ve even had your first morning cup of CBD cannabis single-origin pourover coffee.
And, Staci, don’t tell anyone important about this. In fact, don’t tell anyone, period. It’s our kids we’re talking about here, and we definitely don’t want to get the male chauvinist fed pigs who run things at the Greenbriar involved. Let’s keep this on the down low, ya’ feel me?
And Staci, don’t think of ratting me out, either. Being a full professor of cloud analytics with a specialization in digital decryption and surveillance data mining has it’s, shall we say, side benefits. And I have more than 20 terabytes of your potentially incriminating phone records and digital camera logs hidden in a secret digital repository not connected to the Outernet to prove it. I know we both took a menstrual blood oath as founding members of the Charm City Bombshells never to slit the belly of a fellow sistah, but as you ALSO know, there is one and only exception to that rule; and that is when comes to matters of our children.
So, please don’t make me cut you, Staci, don’t make me do it. I don’t want to, but if I has ta’, bitch, I most certainly will.
Caus’ I’d just HATE ta’ mess up wid dat candy sweet, plus-sized black body of yours using my sacred Mayan obsidian shiv that I got from my grandmother when I turned 18 – and that I fully intend to pass along to my daughter when she reaches that age as well. We Martinez mothers don’t let our daughters grow up to be young women without giving them a means with which to defend themselves from all sexual enemies, both foreign and domestic. I only wish that your mama had lived long enough to teach you that as well, or to have warned you about your father’s rapacious sexual appetites and insatiable needs to chomp on underaged pussy. Would have spared you a lot of expensive therapy bills, I’m thinkin’. Water under the bridge, sistah. Water. Under. The. Bridge.
One more thing: you don’t get to be Full Professor by being a good girl all the time, by minding one’s Ps and one’s Qs. My mother and grandmother and great grandmothers have crawled barefoot AND pregnant under barbed wire, hid out in the deserts, stolen from rich folks, and done what needed to be done to keep their children and husbands alive. We Mexican Jews aren’t exactly typical Hopkins or Harvard material, even now in the 2100s. You don’t work your way up to full professorship by being a goodie two shoes.
Sistah Staci, writing this letter to you has turned out to be more fun than I had realized. But that could be the last of my granddad’s stash of anejo tequila talkin’. A good agave buzz always makes opine for the old days, and then I get all weepy and shit. How many years since we last met? Don’t answer that question! I am not exactly having fun growing old.
It still amazes me, girl, to know that you are now a grownup version of that little crybaby from the East Baltimore Undersea Projects, the timid little thing I knew from your affirmative action days as the only black bisexual girl at Roland Park High School – knew, in the Biblical sense. The New Testament and ALSO the Old.
Of course, that was before I met my husband late that summer and we parted ways. I think we never saw each other again after that for a good many long and lonely years. Bad breakups are like that when you are still as teenager. You left town on that tricked out jetski of yours out into open waters of the Atlantic and didn’t return home for a while.
Girlfriend, just look at you now! You got some serious university bling on them fleshy fingers of yours! MD from Cornell Tower. PhD from the West Texas Sun Farm. JD from Yale Island Law. And a couple of MAs you picked up on the sly from God only knows where.
And now you are back ruling the West Maryland roost: the motha frickin’ Funky Chicken, the Alpha Lioness, the Blue Crab Bitch, the überwomen who towers over us all in penthouse suite in Governor’s Tower: a tall, dark, and buxom stateswoman of the highest magnitude who woos a bevy of voluptuous lovers in her crow’s nest perched at the very top of that tricked out new state-funded mansion. Now that’s representin’ the ‘hood in the flashiest and most flamboyant way possible. Props ta ya fah dat, sistah. Props a’plenty.
You always did tell me that one day you’d live your life large in a real deal crib, didn’t you? You were always talkin’ about that dream, even when you was a BABY Bombshell, before you burned your first leather bra. Hard Times, mostly, but that don’t mean that those Hard Times also weren’t sometimes good. The bad times, they’s history. And I hope that they NEVER come back.
Good. Bad. They’re just words, Sistah. Words. Words don’t steal. Words don’t rape. Words don’t kill. People – and by “people” I really mean men – are the ones who do that wacked out shit.
Besides, I’m getting tired of being the Good Girl, the “full professor,” the “farmhouse wife,” and “Professor bake sale lady.” Sometimes, I want to tell all those other luxury SUV-driving mothers whose children attend my daughter’s school, you know, the ones who who make life so miserable for us women who real jobs at can’t bake cupcakes all day for a living that they can shove those red velvet cupcakes straight up their tight, little white girl yoga asses of theirs, so that they can then go home with their red cupcaked stained, Lulu Lemon ass-grabbin’ pants and then they can complain to their sex-starved, overweight husbands to have been VIIIIIOLATED by some anal sex dude rapist NUUUUUMBskull, just so they can avoid having SEX wit’ em. But that’s just that last of the anejo kickin’. I swear, In am starting to act like my husband, and darlin’, that CANNOT BE GOOD.
Being a good little full professor of cloud computing whore surrounded by horny undersexed men so much of my time, it ain’t right, Staci. Makes we wish sometimes dat’ I was dyo’ and dat’ dyo’ was me and we’d switch places and cool shit like dat. It was the best when we wuz still togetha’ – together as WOMEN – out there on tehm Charm City streets – even if most o’ dem ole’ streets in da’ ‘hood were under hella water and shit, dyo; know what? I’d drop me Old White Daddy Hopkins in a minute if I could you ride on ma’ time wid’ you, on our gang jetskis, across that Sunken Harbor ag’in.
Turn the page, sistah, turn the page. Close them eyes real GOOOD so that you NEVER look back ta’ what dat’ man did ta’ ya, whose name we SHALL NOT and WILL NOT mention again, evah’.
But check dis’ out, Stac’, if there is one thing I NEVER ever want myself to be, ‘do, that’s to be a BAD MOTHA’. We saw enough of those crack bitches in the ‘hood – and their wife beatin’ HUUUSBANDS as well.
Close that book, sistah. And can you please now TELL me it’s time to close mine?
Books. Pages. SCHOOOOOOOOL shit! Makes my mind come back to the CHIIIIIIILDREN, and in the undersea ‘hood it’s only chill’in ‘dey got. Ya’ still feeling me, my lovely and luscious Sistah Stac’?
Yo’ Stac’, check dis’ shit out. Let’s get us tagetha’ and chill over some nice blue crab and bourbon at the Claw.
And, yo Stac’, look at me, I’m da’ Professor. Feels like I’m some kinda’ Gilligan’s Island episode ‘r sometin’ Yo, Staci, yo Staci, where’s that white bitch Mary Anne at, and Gilli G. and the Capt’n and that Hollywood TV all-white lookin’ crew?
But I knowz where da’t red-haired BOMMDHELL ov’a lady, Miss Gingah’s at, do’. She’s probably kneeling right now at yo’ big black crazy ass feet getting all cozy undah’neath that big ass govnah’s desk a’ yors’, and I’ll be she’s been lickin’ dat’ lusciously-lush, sugah’ SWEET-TASTIN’ [please insert here a very bad, four-letter word, starting with the letter “c,” and ending with the letter “t.” Still can’t figure it out? No worries! Perhaps this gentleman on the street who is just leaving the Baltimore Ravens football stadium can help: So, yeah, it’s a pretty smutty word, all right, one dat rhymes with dat thing that sissy teams sometimes do wid’ da’ the football when it’s somethin’ like 4th and long, and their pansy-assed little coach a’ theirs, yiou know, da’ one who stands there all safe ‘n stuff on da’ sidelines, well this coach has his knickers all tied up in a knot, see, and you know (smirks), dere’s dis’ big stain on his pants cause’ – get this – (laughs) the team owner has had the coach’s tiny balls and even tinier dick ripped off and den’ bronzed and den’ mounted in a fancy glass jar or somethin’ like dat, and he puts da’ man’s ball ‘n cock display up in a jar on top of his desk or somethin’, and – where was I goin’ wid dis? Oh yeah – So, rather than be a real man and go for it on 4th and long like youz supposta’, this Coach Coward fella’ whose standin’ there all ballless and dickless on da’ sidelines, well this assmunch orders his pussy-footed homo kicker from goddamn Europe, you know, some homo country like France or somethin’ where all the homosexuals usually like to hang out, and so this pussy homo kicker with a real loose asshole, you know, from being fucked so many times by the boss in his ass, so when this homo kicker finally tries to do this thing – the one that rhymes with the 4-four letter in question, a thing that he does maybe ten or eleven times each and every goddamn game of his life, well this homo kicker shanks the goddamn ball off his French soccer-cleat wearing, homosexual foot he’s got, and then next thing you know, he fuckin’ fumbles the ball, and then the some huge black bastard with a cock the size of my house who plays tight end for the GODDAMN Pittsburg Steelers comes right in and scoops up the pigskin because this black guy, he really likes to stick his black cock into some dead pigs asshole while he’s cookin’ it up to serve it wit’ collard greens and yams to his big black African family, if you know what I’m sayin’, and so then this this big dumb black guy who’s probably dumber than all my Polack friends combined (snickers), well wouldn’t you know it this dumb black bastard then runs the goddam ball back 45 yards straight in for a touchdown, and not even ONE of our guys even manage to lay a frickin’ HAND on ‘im, and then we frickin’ lose for the second time in a row to the GODDAMN Steelers in our own goddamn stadium that in a another few weeks is probably going to sick under the sea. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph (makes sign of the cross), I hope to God never to have to live through dat day. Still, ya’ gotta jus’ lov this football shit, ain’tcha? (burps). Hey, toots – yeah you with the nice set a’ tits and those sweet little butt cheeks stuffed full to the top with some nice-lookin’ Hampden ass – can you be a dollbaby fah us and serve us a few of ‘dem beers, whilst my illustrious colleague and I empty our huge Fells Point Irish and Italian Johnsons right over der in da’ can?] of yours right now. Word to ya’ montha’ ya’ horny, plus-sized Lesbian bitch!
I’m jess’ messin’ wid ya’, Stace’, you knowz dat’, caus girlie girl you KNOOOOOWS dat I luved ya’ back in da’ ‘hood, and dat’ I still luv you now like a sistah and ex-lovah, and now dis’ new kind ‘a motha-ta’-motha luv shit that I’m feelin’ fah you as I write you dis’ letter? Staci, I thinks dat this new kinda mommy luv shit’s also fa’ real. So let’s wrap this baby sweet bad boy up all ladylike an’ shit. Yo, check dis’ shit out:
And in conclusion, Madame Governor, let me reassure you that I will work diligently and honestly with all interested state and federal officials, including your liaison in the Governor’s Office in Hagerstown, in the fervent hopes of finding a mutually beneficial arrangement that will be in the best interests our two children, both for your son, Spencer, and for my daughter, Victoria. Meeting privately to discuss this matter, if you would permit me to addresses your Governorship on a more personal note, could also serve as the spark that can rekindle our once strong and beautiful friendship from the days of our youth days. Let us try, shall we? I look forward to our meeting very much. It will be a rare opportunity for two strong, professional, and career-minded women to meet upon the mutual ground of their shared bond of motherhood, so that together, in close consultation with the educational authorities and school supervisors, we may take the needed steps to ensure that our children’s very special needs are all perfectly met. Yours sincerely, Professor Veronica Martinez, Ph.D., Joffrey Bezos, Jr. Senior Professor of Advanced Cloud Computing, Digital Encryption, and Predictive Analytics at the Cumberland Gap Refuge’s Johns Hopkins 2.0 Level IV Research and Learning Center.
This fancy word stuff’s makin’ my head spin even more than the tequila. I got’s to get me pills and then I gonna get’s me some sleep.
Com’ Sat’day, though, we brownie black tigah mothas’ are gonna’ be AAAAALLL bidness, yah hear? I KNOW dat’ you know what I mean.
Peace out, Sistah Staci, one old school Charm City Bombshell to anotho’. And we be seein’ each other real soon, mmmmhmm?
P.S. You been in touch lately with Big Momma? Ever since she made her first billion Trump Bucks by selling most of her shares in Big Momma’s White Crystal MethMilk™ nonaddictive baby food formula and nutritional supplement business and then took off on a fool’s quest to locate her lost Hoodoo relatives who all disappeared in the Great Charleston Swamp Disaster of 2096, it seems as if she’s fallen of the face of the Earth. You know what, maybe she HAAAAS slipped off, because maybe the Earth ain’t all dat’ ROUND. Maybe it’s actually FLAT, and all those white boy scientists have been telling us LIEEEEES ‘n shit for hella’ long years. Caus’, you know that wid’ white people you never really honestly KNOW.
 Yo, Staci – turn dis page over and keep reading the REST of the story in my attached P.M.P.S. Addendum. I’m dropping a Charm City BOMBSHELL on dyo’. Peace out. – Sistah V.
 Pissed-off Mother’s Postscript.
 A Lesbian waterski gang exclusively for plus-sized and full-figured women that formed on the outskirts of the sunken ruins of Baltimore’s former Inner Harbor neighborhood, following the Great Millennial Flood of 2099. The Bombshells protected the abandoned poor and minority populations of East Baltimore, regardless of race, gender, class, ethnicity, or sexual orientation, from the local polic and federal agencies, as well as engaged in periodic turf wars with the all-white heterosexual Hamden neighborhood gangs at that time, the Beehives (for women) and the Huns (for men), who were the Bombshell’s major rivals at the time.
 Oh, my goodness to Betsy, what a positively TERRIBLE thing to do to upset such an otherwise lovely and so well-written Prologue! Honestly! ManBombing Victoria’s mom’s postscript addendum, which she so courageously added to darling husband’s little letter to our newly elected leader, Governor Ms. Staci Simpson – who is positively DIVINE by the way – and all so that their darling baby daughter, little Miss Victoria, can some spend more PRECIOUS time at home with her darling little Jewish-Mexican grandmother. Can’t ya’ll now plainly see that this is exactly why we elected a black Lesbian woman to be our new leader in the first place!?