Mail Call — Day 123

107851121_10216492231833997_8321690774034757514_nYou Scurrilous Traitor,

Congratulations on your new found splendor in the upstairs basket of floral arrangements and sugar highs.

I, on the other hand, have reached the pit of doldrums. This contagion has finally zapped my usual feelings of joyous exuberance into a sad decay of indifference. I would hope the smell of the Sultan’s freshly minted Franklins or the delicacy of free range fruit would lift me from my acrimonious situation, but I don’t have that option.

The downstairs hen house rarely refreshes the tea pot, scanners screech even louder than the boisterous news desk lady, even Private Bubbly can’t cast aside my bouts of moping.

Hopefully, as you gorge your gullet with the sultan’s saccharine, and become a stinking pile of excrement, I might find a modicum of delight in your grotesque physique.

Until then I shall walk aimlessly and dream of the days that were. Until next time my minuscule marmot, stay hydrated and I hope you run out of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.

Disgustingly yours,

Left eye Daquano
2nd Regime
69th Battalion

Post Script: Give my regards to the Oaf.

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Letters from the Front Line — Day 122

IMG_1281My Dearest Mr. Daquano,

Apologies for the dearth of news lately. My life has been consumed by paperwork. I have requested a transfer.

Fear not, my habanero of happiness, I have asked General News to make Forward Operating Base Frat House my Permanent Duty Station.

Since the return of the Robber Barons of Accounting, the cloak of death permeating the walls of Frat House has lifted.

The Barons arrive before reveille, and fill the air with their tribal cries set to a disco beat that throbs in my heart and fills me with newfound resolve to attack this wretched virus where it lives. Gone is the stench of news life. The fetid atmosphere replaced by the scent of Sultan of Sales Lloyd’s rosewater perfume and freshly minted Benjamins.

Every afternoon, about the time Private Slappy and I return from our sweltering trip outside the wire, the Matron of Money doles out organically harvested frozen treats made from 100% natural juices of free-range fruits.

At least once a week, they have CAKE!

I understand your concern for my figure with these new developments. But I know you love me for more than my masculine physique. If this transfer is approved, I fear you may have to love a slightly dumpier version of your stud.

Warmest personal regards,

Sgt. T. Polisher
1st News Division
9th Battalion

Post Script: If it is any consolation, Pvt. Slappy is still the same dolt you remember him to be.

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Letters from the Front Line — Day 116

_110046277_gettyimages-645829825-594x594My Dearest Mr. Daquano,

This vile contagion has done to my family what the War of Northern Aggression did to so many in our fair land. It has ripped my eldest from the bosom of his family to spurn the advances of an insidious enemy who has not regard for decorum nor civility!

Further, the generals who wage this war have seen fit to send him to foreign soil to stand firm against the spread of a most formidable viral load. While my heart swells with pride in the knowledge that he will defend our sweet freedom to hug the man, woman, child, or non-cis-gendered creature of our choosing, eat without washing our hands, or walk in public maskless, my heart also fears for his safety, and the safety of his men.

Operational security has not permitted him to reveal his exact location, but in his frequent missives, he often speaks of strange crawfish with long, stingy tails, spiders the size of a baby’s head, and lizards as big as German shepherds.

It is indeed a strange land, made all the more strange by his presence, as well as that of his wandering band of soldiers armed only with Lysol and hand sanitizer, spritzing their way across the dunes while chanting the Battle Hymn of the Republic!

I hope that you never know the agony of this separation. And that you keep Sgt. Chop and his leathernecks in your most earnest requests to the Almighty.

Warmest personal regards,

Sgt. T. Polisher
1st News Division
9th Battalion

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Mail Call — Day 115

107514973_10216433854054589_8960771852130606361_nDearest Rick,

Amongst the bellowing of my two-year-old, the hollering of my five-year-old I heard the faint tinging of my cellular device yesterday morning. As I reached into my pocket I could see the name of General News in bold letters. This could mean one of two things.

When the Furor calls, the world is ending. Grab your camera and head south, or he’s heard a funny dad joke he thinks will be amusing. Well, to my chagrin it was the former, “flooding in Ascension parish, you’re live at noon with the Oaf.”

I drove with much trepidation into the ever rising waters, I stopped to take a picture for the web, I got out, stepped in ankle deep water and clicked off a couple and sent to the appropriate on call digital nerd. I guess it’s time to retire the ole rain boots since my socks became inundated with the rain water.

In disgust I headed back to trusty mobile 7 only to realize it was locked and my keys were not on my person. I briefly panicked, yelled a few expletives, then began rehearsing for the inevitable embarrassing phone call to Mr. Nipsy No-Hussle.

I decided to trace my steps to see if they had fallen from my pocket. Sure enough there they were, staring at me, in about 8 inches of rain and muck roughly 15 yards from my vehicle. Keep in mind, this was all before 10am, and I hadn’t even brandished my baby cam nor see the Hillbilly.

Sock-less for the remainder of my shift, and after seeing a snake and a drowned kitten in the flood ravaged streets of Gonzales, I decided it was probably time for a tetanus shot. Fret not though my miniature Resees’ cup, my socks, unlike in 2016 were salvaged.

Humbly yours,

Left Eye Daquano
2nd Regime
69th Battalion

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Letters from the Front Line — Day 114

treasure11My Dearest Mr. Daquano,

We must be gone with this wretched virus!

It is one thing to throw troops into the teeth of war against a cunning and invisible enemy. To allow generals and military tacticians plot and engage the enemy on its own terms, in its own time. That, is a cluster of fornication with which we are well-accustomed and for which we are well-prepared.

It is another alltogether when politicians get involved!

Last week, the local figurehead threw military intelligence to the four winds and declared that, upon venturing outdoors, all must veil their pie holes like banditos in spaghetti westerns at the local cinema. How are we to tell friend from foe if everyone looks as if they are about the rob the 3:10 to Yuma? With this concealment decree, venturing into public without a grill cover is punishable by fine or firing squad.

How will the masses fully appreciate the pompadour if it lacks Lance Corporal Houston’s beguiling grin? Without peering upon his dour countenance, how will one ever ascertain the temperament of Captain Crank? Why would we hide the light of Private First Class Bubbly beneath a bushel basket — floral printed as it may be.

But fear not, my buttercreamed Brussels sprout. Should the rulers of this land force your head insided a burlap sack, I would recognize that lump you call a nose and spring to your rescue.

Warmest personal regards,

Sgt. T. Polisher
1st News Division
9th Battalion

Post Script: This mask mandate has made working with Private Slappy tolerable.

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Letters from the Front Line — Day 108

s3-news-tmp-140656-fake_news--default--1280My Dearest Mr. Daquano,

Your naivete pains my soul.

I had imagined a man of your vast knowledge, breadth of experience, and sagacious mind would be capable of spotting fake news were it to rear its ugly head.

Am I to now understand that you are no brighter than the tin-hatted sheeple who tout flat earth drivel, chem-trail conspiracies, and COVID hoaxes? Are you so easily fooled by doctored photos and out-of-context snippets as to forget the high regard in which I am held in 1st Division?

The blasphemous photos and scurrilous videos are the work of nefarious double-agents! Men, who purport themselves as journalist of the highest integrity, only to later reveal themselves as sowers of mis-information, discontent, and lies!

If it takes the rest of my career, I shall track down these miscreant media moguls, expose their sins, and reveal them for the dogs that they are.

I patiently await your apology.

Warmest personal regards,

Sgt. T. Polisher
1st News Division
9th Battalion

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Mail Call — Day 107

106413809_10220591316086477_167300761487307673_nDearest Rick,

The hen house is cluck cluck, cluckity cluckin today!!

Rumors are swirling around the downstairs tea pot, that you left a 3 legged camera stand abandoned in a grocery store parking lot. Upon hearing this slanderous nonsense about my follically challenged compadre, I erupted in anger!!

How dare these 20-somethings besmirch a man who’s shot miles of film before they were a glimmer in their parents’ eyes? A man who trudged through raw sewage to bring our viewers a first hand perspective of life beyond there tight inner circle? Battles with hurricanes, floods, angry pastors all to let the lens meat reap the credit and commendations?

You attack your craft with a viscous fervor all for what, to be mocked and ridiculed by those who don’t come close to pocessing your sharp eye and keen editing prowess??? The only thing that could change my mind, my little tater-tot, is video evidence which I doubt they can produce.

Rick’s life matters to me!!!

Left Eye Daquano
2nd Regime
69th Battalion

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Mail Call — Day 102

IMG_1225My Delicate Flower,

Do you ever lie in bed at night an wonder what our co-workers do for entertainment whilst not documenting this wretched virus?

I imagine Senator Hollins whittling small wooden figurines of his favorite female reporters. I would imagine he grins as he, ever so delicately strokes paint onto the grain with expert precision, then adorns his nightstand with his masterful creations. He may even whisper sweet nothings to them as he drifts into a deep slumber.

I would imagine Anchor Boy reads LSU media guides and soaks in every minute detail of the illustrious past of the storied program. I’m certain that he dissects stats from the 1973 game against Ole Miss.

Wonder no longer about Col. Kielbasa. I have unearthed his secret passion!! No, it is not washing his Camaro with a toothbrush while coming his lusterous pompadour for hours on end.

It is the swivel pulse and the funky isolation!

Please do not confuse these acts with lewd, barnyard procreation, for they are not euphemisms for bestial coitus. They are dance moves.

Enemy spies have uncovered photographic proof that our own Chet Goodhair teaches dancing lessons while away from the phallus palace as evidenced by this short clip smuggled across the front lines and into the Producer’s Den.

Such style and grace and fresh funky moves are surely the mark of a man of style, grace, and taut athletic abs. I am quite sure his swiveling hips drive the female lawmakers mad when they see him stud across the rotunda. And a few male lawmakers as well. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Clandestinely yours,

Left Eye Daqano,
2nd Regime
69th Battalion

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Letters from the Front Line –Day 101

World Series Astros Nationals BaseballDearest Mr. Daquano,

Thank you for calling my attention to the antics of Late Private Corky of the Rocky Mountain Division.

Examples such as this are the reason he is the LATE Private Corky. The density of his skull is such that even my pantomathic photoggery prowess could not penetrate its surface.

I am, however, happy to learn that the lad has landed on his feet — even if it is in a shithole. At least there is frozen cream there.

When one cuts to the heart of the matter, something simplistic and nonsensical, such as a review of ice cream parlors, might be more in the caterpilloried lad’s wheelhouse.

Consider this: Such “journalism” requires little thought, even fewer looks, and a goofy hat. Traits that Late Private Corky possesses in abundance.

It also requires only a cellphone — no buttons or switches for the simpleton to mis-punch. No iris to adjust. No gain to manipulate. All that is required is to hold the screen horizontally. He need not even focus!

Might I suggest that it the late private’s lack of photographic acumen is not the fault of my tutelage, rather, it is a product of his own over-reach. To use the baseball vernacular, in the 9th Battalion he was swinging for the fences, when he first needed to learn to be hit by a pitch.

Warmest personal regards,

Sgt. T. Polisher
1st News Division
9th Battalion

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Mail Call — Day 100

IMG_1712Finest Rick,

I can scarcely believe it has been 100 days since I last saw your simian features. But I did not write to insult your appearance.

You fancy yourself the pantomath of all things photoggery. I think your self-annoited praise needs immediate revokal!!

I doubt you’ve seen this delightful segment entitled Ice Cream Socihal. The basic premise is a funny-looking dude in a goofy hat opines about the particular ice cream parlor of the day.

This little slice of journalistic absurdity is brought to you by the Late Private Corky of the Rock Mountain Division.

This little waste internet space entails the late private biting into a cone topped with frozen cream, rather suggestively I might add, and saying, “Mmmmm, good.”

I’ve seen more entertaining piles of crap in my back yard. Maybe if he trimmed the caterpillars above his eyes, he would see with precise clarity that this rudimentary endeavor is no better than a third grade school project.

Your credibility as a tutor, my diminutive devil, has been unequivocally revoked.

With deepest sincerity,

Left Eye Daquano
2nd Regime
69th Battalion

Post Script:After further analysis, it may be the best thing he’s ever done.

Categories: corona virus, covid-19, Fun, Life Or Something Like It, news, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

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