Tatiana

Tatiana,

Well, well, well, my dear, "way to go!" on the good looks. Excellent job! I, myself, me, the guy writing to you, is currently drawing a picture. It's of a feather. Plumage has been on my mind a lot lately. I don't know if it is the incumbent spring, which rhymes with sing, which is what our flying friends do and you know what birds are covered in, feathers. Tatiana, you must admit that the feather is an underrated natural resource. Its many duties are only equaled by its vast availability, for you see, there are many different birds with many sprouting feathers. I have feathered pillows, a feathered comforter and one special pair of feathered underwear. I have a quill pen. I have a 10-pound bag of feathers lying around just to prove it weighs as much as the 10 pound bag of cement that I also have lying around. On those dismal dreary days, I tickle the nape of my neck with a feather. It always cheers me up. My son is named Feather Although, that may have been a mistake.

I have, however, had one bad experience with a feather. Though I continue to travel down the road that led me to the feather fiasco, I proceed with caution and a scarred memory of that faithful night in the blustery month of June, during the scavengerous year of nineteen hundred sixty plus thirteen. I was, as we say in America, "Kickin It" with my friends, watching the Skeeball Championships. Let me tell you Tatiana, the competition was intense. Skee Masterson, down to his last shot, needed no less than a 90 to push the match into an extra chucker. What did he do? Draino! He sank it, bullseye, for a C-Note, not to mention the championship, not too mention a fat prize (A watergun, complete with utility belt, extra water cartridge and a squirt distance guarantee of at least 200 feet). Anyway, as I do for every Skeeball Championship, I popped few dozen buffalo wings into the oven. No, Tatiana (silly!), they aren't wings from a buffalo, those would be much too large for one person to eat. These are the lower half of the leg from the Alabama State Bird, the chicken. Commonly called "Yardbird." Ding, they're done and I was famished. Despite the large amounts of skin, fat and unknown entities on the wings, I dug in. I was through about four when I picked up what will forever be known as "The Evil Wing." Well, as I creased my teeth through the bluecheese, through the skin, through the fat and into the meat, I was greeted by a tickling sensation on my nose. "Strange" I thought, "eating wings never tickled my nose before." Despite the fact that I didn't want to unglue my eyes from the climactic event on the tube, I felt it was my duty to investigate this, the oddest of occurrences. As I pulled away and investigated, there it was, staring me in the face. Taunting me with its maniacal smile and dripping in hotsauce, this feather was praying to be eaten. This was no small feather that could be ignored, or digested for that matter. No! This was the "Queen Hoochie-Mama" of feathers. Aghast, I threw down the wing and began to dry heave. How did this feather make it so far? What was it planning on doing to me after consumption? Thankfully, I didn't have to find that out.

Disgusted with Will, Purdue that is, and his shoddy inspection system, I decided action must be taken. I wrapped it up and put it in the fridge, prepared to send it, complete with a scathing and profanity-ridden letter, back to its maker. Unfortunately Tatiana, I forgot about it until the other day when I found it, hunting down the "missing?" cherry turnovers. This, I believe, is why my days have been filled with plumage visions and two legged dreams.

Tatiana, take it from a friend, survey the wing before you eat it. It will pay off in the long run. That being said, good luck on your future endeavors and "kudos" on the good looks.

Cautiously yours,

Orpheous Roy