On Poker and Being Handcuffed to a Couch

Dear Mr. OR,

I have begun to believe that there is a counter culture or resistance that is building against what appears to be the ever constant invasion of our homes by The Beast and its friends. Yes indeed I have lately heard of many a poker table surrounded with men just like me discussing and trading torture techniques in the hope that one of us has the answer that will send The Beasts home and return our darling brides and homes back to us. I think the psychiatrist I saw was indeed a member of this resistance.

Upon having my eyes opened to the fact that the Beast really does exist I realized as well that the Psychiatrist had made a grave error in his diagnosis of me. But now that I look back on it that seams absurd as well. I mean here is a man who has spent years diagnosing people with all sorts of mental illnesses, trained in the top schools of our time, and gainfully employed in The Lumpy's home city. Now, a man who gives bad psychological advice does not stay gainfully employed for very long. It was upon this realization that I made my discovery. Indeed when the facts don't make sense there is usually a hidden agenda involved. This Psychiatrist must be part of the resistance and was trying to help me rid myself of the Beast by giving me the means through which to do it. How? By ignoring the Beast. By making sure that the Beast does not receive attention.

I've heard that prisoners in solitary confinement sometimes go crazy. Certainly the Beast if faced with the prospect of going mad would leave through its own volition. But how to achieve this? The wife is constantly around the Beast. In fact, as I mentioned previously, I was at one time worried that the Beasts bottom had grown into my wife’s hip. I'm relieved to say that it has not. I would need to give my wife my wallet. This seams to be the only fool proof way to get my wife out of the house without the Beast following behind her. Although I shall have to be careful to make sure she leaves the Beast as the last time was a disaster.

Without pause I put my plan into action. Handing over, somewhat apprehensively, my wallet to my wife and offering to watch the Beast. This action merited me a kiss which put me in such a mood that it was several minutes after my wife had left before I remembered the real reason I had sent her away and began my work. First I would need a cell. No problem. Amongst our other torture devices my wife had me buy to prepare for the invasion were several different barred cells. I quickly assembled one. Placing the padded mat in the bottom so that should the Beast not be able to remove itself in time its madness would not result in its personal injury. After all if the red cross were to come over I would not want them to find an insane and battered Beast drooling in its cell. This would most definantly end up in the Lumpy being shipped to Holland to stand trial and frankly the Lumpy hates to travel.

My labor finished I joyfully placed the Beast in the cell, shut the door, and retired to a portion of the house as far away from the cell as I could go. There I grabbed a book. I am sorry to say; however, that the Lumpy residence is neither spacious nor is it sound proof from room to room. Almost immediately the Beast began its wailing. Scream after scream after scream. It felt as though the very house were shaking with the vibrations of the noise that the Beast were making. At several points I had to, with great courage; fortify myself from going into the other room just to make the noise stop. Just as I was handcuffing myself to the couch I noticed a change in the screams. They began to soften and there were long pauses in between. I was amazed. In all honesty I didn't expect this to work the very first time. Within the next twenty minutes the screams slowed down and finally stopped and everything was quiet.

I waited. Then I waited a little longer. Finally I decided to go and peak in the room. Carefully I opened the door and there lay the Beast. I looked a long while but couldn't make out any breathing. Rather than get the Beast to leave I had killed it. This was a mixed blessing. Indeed no Beast is a good thing but certainly my in-laws from the red cross would notice a dead Beast and as I have already mentioned I hate traveling. The only way to forego the inevitable conclusion was to bury the Beast in the back yard. So off I went to get my shovel from the garage.

I began digging in a nice shady area of the yard that I thought the Beast would like. It was in fact the very spot that the Beast had been grazing when I learned that it likes to eat grass. I had dug a fare portion of the grave when my wife returned from her shopping with my now empty wallet. She was of course very curious as to what I was doing so I informed her that the Beast had died and I was working on burying it. With a horrified panicked look my wife raced into the room containing the Beasts cell. By the time I got there my wife had managed to perform a miracle. She resurrected the Beast. How exactly this was done I am uncertain as I was setting down my shovel but I would imagine that like the resurrection of Lazarus it required prayer and the calling forth of the Beast by name.

So I am now left looking for a good game of poker. I have set up the table and am looking for other like minded men dealing with their own invasions to come and join me so that together we might be able to ascertain how to rid ourselves of our enemy combatants. I remain always;

Respectfully Yours,

The Lumpy