The
Real Teddy Happ
In the following letter,
the distinguished businessman and humanitarian Teddy Happ (well into
his 90s at the time) responds to a follow-up request we made to hold
a speaking engagement. He had promised this prior to the stroke that
caused him to withdraw from public life. As he refused to speak in
public, we felt that the least we could do to appease our devoted
subscribers and considerably less loyal newsstand purchasers was to
reprint his response letter in its unedited form.
This letter, delivered
to us personally by a disgruntled ex-employee of Happ's who rescued
it from the dumpster, gives an insight into the dark psyche of a man
perceived to be a gentleman of the highest order. The ex-employee
(who shall remain nameless to protect his privacy) assures us that
this was to be sent to The Skinny if Happ had not thrown it away...
Hallo Prince!
How ya doin', boy?
Huh, how are ya? That's a good feller... that's a good boy. Sit! Good
boy. Shake. That's right, good.
Prince old boy, I'm
being beaten down by the man. Beaten in half. Beaten into a soft,
round, roll of viscous muscle, blood and brain matter that is now
forced to be carried around by my very own nicked up and unfleshed
skeleton much as Sweetness tucked the pigskin 'neath his arm and scrambled
for 6.
Licked! Licked unlike
your slobbery sentiments, stout Princey. Licked like postage by the
puissant tongue of authority and gummily glued to the top right corner
of an envelope addressed to Publisher's Clearinghouse. Herded with
a colony of clones all cast as moth-ridden life preservers into the
sea of slim chances and seeking the safe harbor of a snowball's chance
in hell. I'm melting. What's that boy? Time for a trot? Well, let's
motivate 'a pied' then, Prince.
Ah& Springingtime!
That's when a young man's thoughts turn to love in the foothills of
the Franco-Suisse Alps (and MY thoughts turn to the foothills well
North of the common cutie's bobby socks). What I tell you is this,
dear poochie, were I too consider participating in the act of witty
dialogue volley, it would have to be with a woman whose IQ was bested
by her blouse size. That is to say, I could ill-afford any form of
in-depth intellectual discourse.
Prince? Oh Princey!
There you are. Bad doggy. Oooh. That's gonna rust. Come along now...
Well feller, I've
certainly jawed on now haven't I? If you've not gone blind, relay
your thoughts tout suite. No, Princey, I don't understand barking.
ha ha ha. Ha Ha Ha. AHH HA HA HA HA! Oh how jolly.
