Team Deathray – Letter 6

Dear Scott,

First things first, my man: “Pie Fest ’98” was THE Pie Fest. It topped all other Pie Fests before it and has yet to be replicated, so if anything you should be honored that I let you wear that shirt. I sent it over as a sign that you are very much welcome in the clan. That is, as long as you refrain from TOO many more violent outbursts towards other members of my family.

I’m happy you finally noticed my family’s ability to not care about the extremely hurtful things that so easily spout out of your mouth. It’s partially because my family grew up in a very loving, accepting and understanding household where we call each other Raphanus on a fairly consistent basis and it’s partially because we’re usually stoned stupid on whatever mind-bending drug we can get our hands on. Remember that back pack full of frogs we brought a couple weeks ago that we told you were for little Sheena’s biology homework? Well, we told a little fib. We had actually smuggled them across the border to escape an evil dictatorship in South America. In exchange for the rescue, they let us lick the hallucinogenic slime off of their bodies. AND LICK WE DID! How’s that for the barter system, buddy?

Now that you’ve had a couple days to come down from the trip and regain complete control of all of your senses, what did you think of your first LSD experience? When I saw you running screaming at my door covered in blood and sour cream (non-vegan sour cream, CHEATER) I thought maybe it wasn’t going too well. But once we smoked you up you started to relax and just talk to the ceiling fan for 4 hours, so maybe you enjoyed it a bit. I bet it had a lot to say! HAHA! Henry seemed nice, too. From what I could tell he was just kind of an apple with a bunch of toothpicks sticking out, but he didn’t do anything to cramp my vibe, so he can hang whenever.

You’re getting close, Scott. When I meditate on your situation I can see you grasping for that elusive pair of homemade sandals. Just inches out of your reach, they dangle their straps and brush against your outstretched fingers. You don’t grab them though, Scott. You must push onward toward your goal. Tomorrow we will be going to the Anti-Insulting of Animals rally bearing our “NO, YOU ARE THE DUMB DOG,” signs. We’ll show those people who make fun of our unable-to-protest-for-themselves friends that we mean business. See you at the crack of 1pm!


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