Hot, you say! Is that your countrified way of exaggerating? Don’t you dare tell me you know from hot, farmboy, until you’ve spent a weekend in a thin wood tenement when the radiator’s broken down. Your daddy might’ve called you ugly, baby, but there ain’t nothing uglier than a big city girl in nothing but her drawers trying to keep herself from melting between these rickety floorboards. If I wasn’t waiting for the iceman you can be sure I’d be as nude as a jay. Ding dong your papa’s dead. Don’t get too tough out there by your lonesome. He loved you I’m sure he did. Love, love, love that cursed acreage. You’re like some feudal lord coming home to bury his estate. Oh, I wish I could see it, your bottom of Creation! You tell them ever loving g-men to give you top dollar for your bottom. It feels like you’ve been gone forever in this awful weather. Everything’s sticky. Your letter is sticky. Here I thought you were being romantic and crying tears of longing on my telegram. But nope, you big lunk, you sweat all over it! Ugh. Love, love, love. It is much too pyretic to think of something clever when outside children are boiling eggs. Wasting perfectly good eggs! Bring me chickens when you get back. You don’t have to count them.
Hot on the stoop, waiting for the iceman.