Don: The man behind the meatloaf

With anticipation for the forthcoming, and wildly delayed, 'You'll never get me alive, Carlyle: An interview with Don Meatloaf. Part 2', I have decided to inform the salivating public on why, exactly, the drool is exiting your mouth's.

The reason is the man, not the loaf. It was many years ago when I secured a squirrel to which I considered a pet. Although, it was an 'outside' squirrel so I was never sure if it was always the same one cuddling up to me in bed a night. All I knew was that I loved it. One day and during a game of Charades with my little grey pal, which I named Loretta, it took off down the street.
I ran as fast as I could down the side street, over a small stream, through a yoga class, and finally lost sight of it as I made it to the main street.

It seemed Loretta was gone forever and I was visibly upset sitting on the curb when a waft of freshly fried meatloaf traveled up my nose. I looked up and there he was. Don Meatloaf and his fried meatloaf cart right on the busy intersection of metal and misery.

Don came over to me placing his large, hairy hand on my shoulder to comfort me and with his other hand he held out a freshly fried slice of his now famous meatloaf. For a second I forgot about Loretta and the great times we had. The meatloaf consumed by senses and transported me to an infinite world of possibilities. I was swimming in glistening streams of warm gravy. Jumping off crunchy meatloaf cliffs into pools of pale yellow frying oil. My spirits began to engorge and I quickly replaced my lost love Loretta with Don Meatloaf and his fried meatloaf cart.

Over the years Don and I became very close. We even shared holidays together. He would come over my place and I would clear a few seats off my dining room table in the 2nd floor ballroom. My taxidermy jungle collection never minded taking a place on the floor to watch us enjoy our food together. Or I would go over his place where he would set up some cardboard on the ground next to the dumpster for me to sit on. We would talk for hours even though he spoke no English--we connected on a higher level.

Ok. I have to go.

A letter to Santa

Dear Santa-

Hello. It's that time of year again. The cherub's are nesting in tinsel and the unicorns are sharpening their horns and gathering in the backwoods-it's Christmastime, Santa, and it got me thinking about you.

To put it bluntly, I feel that you aren't pulling your weight. Let's get real casual here for a minute here. You work one day a year. I believe you are capable of so much more. Not to mention, you haven't been looking so hot recently. You let yourself go. But whose to blame you really, sitting around for 364 days of the year-I'd probably be in the same boat. High blood pressure, diabetes, poor hygiene, and going on your what, 3rd bypass? Looks grim doesn't it? But don't jump off the sleigh just yet-I have a solution. MORE CHRISTMASES!

What I'm proposing is adding several more Christmases a year. Obviously, we'd start off small and ease your way into it. Maybe one a season until you get your shit right and you can get off the oxygen tank. I can take care of the initial marketing. I have a connection with a local ad agency that makes those diner placemats. I can get the new Christmases on all the diner placemats in Passaic County for a good price. From there, and if you haven't stroked out yet, we can add more and more Christmases until your heart rate stabilizes and your feet turn flesh color again.

Please think about it. I'm here for you, Santa.