A Smattering of Notes To and From Fuddboy #1

May 18, 1998

Keeping in the miscellaneous holiday spirit, I've drafted this little gem....

Cheesy, sneezy chuckwagon
Happy, sappy snapdragon
Ping pong balls and buckets full of snakes

Puny puppy's tail waggin'
Fearless Freddy's face draggin'
Through the mud with shovels, hoes and rakes

Because Flag Day's comin'
And we'll soon be hummin'
That Flag Day song we've known since we were young

We know that Flag Day's comin
And we'll all be runnin'
Up to the pole to polka and chew gum

NOTE ("Because" needs to be in three syllables..."Be caw aws")

May 12, 1998

RE: Yucca Flats


I liked the first cut, "Father", but the rest really didn't do anything for me and I listened to them each three times. He reminds me more of Peter Gabriel on those three cuts than any of the other artists named. The "Father" cut is actually pretty good. Maybe the rest of it would grow on me. I think the Wilcox reference has more to do with the alternative tunings. Well, my son's guitar has "alternative tunings", but that doesn't make him David Wilcox.

By the way, my son asked Jesus into his heart on Saturday. We didn't pressure him. It was something he did all on his own. Of course, it didn't hurt any that I kept teasing him that he was going to hell if he didn't, but that's not really pressure, is it? (heh)

Ya take a big 'ol butcher knife,

Mr. Rabbit

From: Uncle Smeggy

Mr. Humphries,

My plan to dominate the world's styrofoam peanut supply is nearly complete. Forget your dream of bubble wrap and join me in a world of superior packaging supplies!

Mr. Whipple

From Rogo:

Mr. Peanut:

On August 13th, 1974 a young boy was taken from his home...kidnapped. It was a typical hot summer morning and the ground was still swollen with morning dew. The boy, only 5 years old, was placed in a snug wooden box and left for days in the hot sun. Darkness was his only companion, with the exception of thousands of styrofoam peanuts. Not only did these packaging supplies aid in keeping the boy restricted in the box, but they also muffled any noise that could possibly penetrate the tiny corners of what might have become a coffin. Nevertheless, the boy screamed for days until his voice grew hoarse and giant blisters developed on his tonsils. When the ransom was paid and the box finally opened, the boy was close to his last breath as his throat was nearly swollen shut and one of his nostrils completely blocked by the obtrusive stryofoam peanuts. It took months of bed rest and years of psychological therapy, but the boy was able to return to an almost "normal" life. However, to this day he cannot bring himself to walk into a post office and refuses to drink coffee in anything other than a non-disposable mug. Yes, I'm that boy, you insensitive jackrabbit! And if you think that I will EVER join you in your tyrannical quest to obtain the very packaging supplies that still haunt me to this day, you're a bigger buffoon than I ever imagined.

Respectfully Submitted,

Roger D. Shuman

May 26, 1998


So, what is it that makes a grown man pick up the phone on a Sunday to call another man over 150 miles away just to cry, "Spleens! You're it.", cackle, and then hang up? How is it that this same man dreams up wildly retarded stories about alphabetizing cities and men who dress up like bigfoot? How is it that this man takes delight in the hope that his Internet homepage may someday be linked from an unofficial Wink Martindale site? My guess is genital warts.

Yours Truly,