Memo

To everyone who attended the luau at Senator Donaldson's house last Saturday, I want to say: Bang-up job! That was a really fun time. Kudos to all who contributed to the purchase of that Audi A6, which was presented to me as a gift. I really like it, despite its color — seriously, I wish I wouldn't have made such a fuss about the color, now that I've driven it for a few days: it handles beautifully, and that makes up for everything.

Also, whoever prepared the fish did an excellent job. That's the best cod I've ever had.

Next week, I'd like Senator Smith to throw a party at his house; and the week after that, I'd like Senator Murphy to host an event. In either case, we should begin the evening by gathering on the deck for cocktails; then, once the starry night appears, we can move to the basement for slow dancing & making out. Both houses of the aforesaid Senators possess finished basements, if I remember correctly; so this should work well. 

I want you all to think of me at sundown. Every sundown, just think about me. It's my lifelong dream to be associated with the pink clouds of California. Don't let me down.

If anyone owns a horse, I'm also in the market for heading to Dave's place. Do you remember Dave, our friend from grade-school who's now a pot dealer? How many of us can fit on one horse, I wonder. I'm guessing no more than three or four... Dang, I bet even three is pushing it, considering how fat we've all become, since we're all super-rich now. ("Too big for our breeches" as the jealous headline goes.) So, maybe forget the horse. Or, rather, command our subordinates from a nearby law firm to ask around until we can rent TWO horses; then let me hold the reins while we all walk afoot to wherever we're going, and the nags can trot alongside us. That would be best. This way, it's fair to everyone.

We could even arrange for the beasts to be officially knighted, so that we can add a "Sir" before their name, if that's cool with you all. I know several British royals who owe me favors. Yes, we could stroll along as one vast, chipper conglomerate while occasionally offering a carrot or apple to Sir Alfie and Sir Paddy. Maybe even Sir Bailey, if I can find my ex-wife's new address. I'll bring a satchel of treats that we can all share.

Yesterday's skydiving festival was a blast, by the way. Everyone represented our tribe in a way that made me proud to be our kingpin. I was happy to see so many of our female legislators not wearing undergarments. I don't say this in a gross or creepy way: I'm thinking of the future; we're now one step closer to becoming classical statuary. I almost regret imprisoning the photography unit. Maybe I'll think about letting them out. Remind me after lunch.

Oh! and Bob's burning blimp was a good idea. I always love the stuff that Bob dreams up. 

The sales reports that I've prophesied for the upcoming twelvemonth are now in your cubby bins. I told Sarah to slide them in there. Please take them and study them. You're going to need to make them factual, if you wish to remain loved. 

Now I promised I'd tell you a secret; so here it is:

Seven camels entered a vision that I had recently. It happened just after I ate my daily bowl of ice cream. I fell asleep right there in my main office, resting my head between the two telephones on my desk. My dream-self was occupying a stool at a soft-serve pub, and on the other side of the counter were these majestic souls: I had expected to flirt with a few of the regular barmaids, but I got these strange-looking dromedaries instead. Have you ever heard of a barbershop quartet? That term means that there are only four vocalists, whereas "septet" signifies seven. Telepathically this septet of camels began crooning to me, in achingly sweet harmony, the news that despite my dessert bowl appearing empty at present, it'll soon be CLONED & SYMMETRIZED WITH A DOUBLE HELPING. (Think "free refills".) Then I heard a happy jingling noise, as of bells, which grew louder and louder; and I awoke to find that both phones, on either side of my noggin, had been ringing nonstop. I picked up their handsets simultaneously and voiced my usual "Speak fast, I'm busy!" into the receivers. And, get this: On the other side of each line was an owner from the last duopoly of transnational corporations that I've been trying all my life to commandeer: they informed me that they were finally willing to bunt. So, now, you tell me: is this number seven a good omen or what!?

On a more somber note, however, I need to apologize for something I did to all the cars of our colleagues in congress. As I was goofing around yesternoon while smoking my midday cigar, I opened up a photo-editing program on my computer and navigated to the file that contains the official pics of all the congress-folk's motor-coaches; then I employed certain digital tools to manipulate each visual so that its driver-side door appears to be vandalized with the same spraypainted message: "EMINENTLY BRIBABLE." — I do sincerely regret performing this jest, for I lacked the presence of mind to maintain a safe-copy of all the undoctored originals; thus the changes that I made proved permanent: when I clicked the "Save" button, they replaced the source photographs globally. Now all the webpages that reference these files to present the normal composite portrait-with-backdrop (for the top of each personal homepage is set to display an image of the congressmember superimposed beside their automobile) leaves our leadership looking less than respectable. But I take comfort in the fact that most United Statesians cannot read.

Now I'd like to offer a couple more acknowledgements. Thanks to Senator Thomson and Senator Jeffries for always flimflamming with me. Also Senator Tandy for allowing me to beat her at butter-sports. Hats off to Senator Tense for helping at the ham hunt. Senator Effoff likewise deserves a nod for rescuing my secretary, the time when that gravel pit appeared out of nowhere. And a very sincere salute to Doctor Neff and Senator Tabby for covering up all the stuff that I do on my paper route. 

Before closing, we should also send up a cheer for our standing President. Whether you like him or not, you've got to admit that he certainly does stand. He stands at the podium and exists in passable fashion. It's reality; what can ya do? Just put your hands together and give the familiar personage a standard welcome. 

Of course, we know that the true saints are all the mothers and  underpaid care-workers who remain forever nameless. So give them a raise in compensation and then suck it back in the lawyer-print, at the end of the contract. Go ahead & take your time.