Mangey Fish,

Ah, crap. Ah, jeez. It’s just that I have to send this. Ah, man. You’re going to probably turn around and…

I suppose the cast of the nickel is sufficient to warrant an invitation, or, at the very least, a slap on the follicle. While I can’t necessarily provide a tenant, a statement of posture, to do away with all of the worries of a flaking people, I can certainly wrap my belt around the neighborhood and watch what comes squirming out.

Like it or not, the Cobbian underground is breaking it. Down there. The underground. It is, as I’m saying, being broken, crumbled into pieces. As time goes on, this becomes more and more problematic. People, both Cobbians and Husklobbers, are beginning to fall in, from above. As the underground gets all busted up, the top becomes unsupported.

Cobbians have gone so far underground, digging deeper and deeper… perhaps something someone has said has somehow indicated that this behavior is warranted. Certainly, I am not one to say whether or not this is the case. All I’m the one to say, as I’m saying, is that the doing of this, whether it is necessary or not necessary, or semi-necessary though not necessarily necessary depending upon your age, weight, and general state of consciousness, is breaking shit. And it’s starting to draw attention.

Do Cobbians need attention? The Great Cob said, one time, while spinning in circles and trying not to fall down, “Intun [{3300}] threed uglut.[] scoo, loon, ubsquunt nyuuktun (…GOAT…) spart carolina{ACKBAR!! ACKBAR!!} GAB… fish… [{crack}]”

Those of you who have reached the part of the underground where we keep the gum can interpret that for yourselves – for the rest, I’ll do my best. What Cob was trying to say, while trying not to break open Cob’s face, is that airports are where they keep the scientists, and if you’re using the whisk, please to be bringing it back. Into the patch of crust. Where everyone’s having a meeting, to which you were invited, but were too good to show up for.

We’re not needing to be needing anything, surely. We’re not wanting to be noticing, nothing, but needing, maybe. Are the tractor? It’s a quandary. Lights are far away, underground, where you’ve all sort of busted up a lot of the what. Cracked and shiny. Please. Eggs? Not this late. You’ll become valiant.

Customarily, there might be a list:

__ The plantation is on fire
__ The plantain is on fire
__ I can’t quite read this, but something starting with “The plant” is on fire.
__ Maybe it’s saying something is NOT on fire.
__ Is your bowl on fire?
__ Mosquitos: Can they cross the Deleware?

However, on this particular occasion, I am instead occluding a sketch:

__ Thaddeus ate the last crouton
__ Syrup: Road Off
__ Do Not Sit Here
__ Mitt

Unfortunately, the sketch has not translated well into this document. It seems to have come out looking more like a coloring book. Why did it have to come out at all? Have words been spoken beyond my melted thin-mint? I cannot guess.

May Cob not be what’s on fire.

Killarny,

Boomptuppus Thoroughfair