October 8th, 2024
Dear Mr. Fudd,
I’m sorry to report that I’ve yet to make it out to the bonsai tree stand out on Dodge Street. I was in the process at one point, but was distracted at a stoplight when a black convertible pulled up in the lane next to mine. The driver wore a shirt that looked like he was headed to a meeting with his bowling team, and the make of the car was one of those middle-of-the-road manufacturers that communicates, “hey I own a convertible but not a nice one.” He seemed to settle for what his budget allowed after his bowling dues were paid in full.
The rear-view mirror had an air freshener dangling from it advertising “Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax.” Now I am familiar with sex, and with wax, but I’ve never considered combining the two of them the way that Mr. Zog apparently had. I remain unclear as to the proper application of the product, and the air freshener was lacking in additional detail. Perhaps it is a bowling alley product, or something used for the removal of pubic hairs, or something meant for the assembling of scented candles—hence why they would diversify their product lines into the tangential market of air fresheners.
The bowling shirt sped away as soon as the light turned, at a speed inappropriate for the Millard North school zone we had both found ourselves in. His Nebraska license plate stated “SHOWME.” Again, the lack of detail was troublesome to me. Someone who purchased sex wax in the quantity that deems him worthy of a complimentary air freshener is not someone that I think would be discreet about what he wants shown toward him, but again, this driver proved the exception. Perhaps he’s from Missouri, or a fan of the movie Jerry Maguire.
Much obliged,
C.S. Beaty
I was still feeling my way around the type of correspondence I wanted to have with Haywood Fudd. When he was at his best, Fudd was painting elaborate nonsense scenes depicting bizarre characters whose mannerisms forced the reader to respond, “how does someone come up with this?” Like an alternate reality game, Haywood blended the real world with the strange corners of his imagination and thrust them upon the unsuspecting postal customer without any context. This blending of the absurd with the ordinary gave Fudd his charm. Even if some people, like one of the commenters on Kmart 29’s Reddit thread, “didn’t care much being toyed with.”
That wasn’t really the way I wrote.
After trying some gag in my first letter about the character “Pepsi” and an imaginary fight I had with him concerning a Ferris wheel, I felt the same way I felt when I was tricked into accidentally accepting a part time job at a temporary tax preparation storefront inside the Conestoga Mall which required me to dress up as Uncle Sam and pass out flyers for tax preparation services: stupid. What Fudd did with such mastery and gusto did not come naturally to me. So, I crafted one rule for my letters to Fudd from here on out: always tell the truth.
Needing material, I started seeing the world differently. I looked for the absurd in the ordinary while I walked my dog and drove to the library. I took notes in a pocket sized journal and realized that the more minute the description the more ludicrous the situation felt. As my brain constantly vivisected “why do I think this is funny and how would I describe it to Haywood,” I felt, joy? Happy? Excited? I realized I loved being toyed with. I loved being in on the joke, making something into a joke, and being the butt of the joke. And I didn’t really care if anyone else found my own observational ramblings on life funny, because I thought they were funny. I realized if I was amused, it mattered less if others were. And going through life looking for things that amuse you wasn’t a bad way to spend a day.
And Fudd kept writing me back, so he must have thought it was kind of funny too. Or maybe he just needed another excuse to write down his own absurd observations on life, even if his observations bent reality.
●●●
Last summer, after eight months of alternating letters with Fudd, my family took shelter from the rain in a Galveston, Texas surf shop. We spent longer inside than we would have liked due to the downpour and lack of transportation available, but we made friends with the surf shop owner who happened to also be from Nebraska. To wait out the rain, I browsed this surf shop’s inventory more thoroughly than I had ever browsed any other surf shop’s inventory before. As one might imagine a surf shop in Texas run by an expatriate Nebraskan would, they had ample, newly released, “Gulf of America” swag. It made my heart hurt. But then I saw a cardboard endcap displaying rows and rows of Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax. I had never bothered to Google the product. It was funnier to me without that knowledge of what it actually was. I guess it’s for surfboards or something. Part of me was sad for having the joke and the mysteries spoiled, but then again, I would have never noticed the Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax air freshener in the first place had I not been looking for something trivial to brighten my afternoon drive that I could write to Haywood Fudd about.
So I started looking for the next thing to write to Haywood Fudd about. The world was full of them.
October 12th, 2024
Dear Mr. Beaty,
The following is the latest news from West-West Omaha:
· Lyle Wheeler, 70, who lives West of cedar Bluffs, Neb., on County Road X, is a devotee of folk music. His all-time favorite folk song is “Sweet Betsey from Pike.” He’ll sing it upon request, two period Lyle testified he believes he sung the Diddy over 600 times period the first part of the tune goes like this:
Oh, don’t you remember
Sweet Betsey from Pike?
She crossed the wide mountains
With her lover Ike
And one yoke of oxen
And big yeller dog
A tall Shanghai rooster
And one spotted hog
Doodle-ang-fall, di-id-all
Do-lang-fall, did-ay
Doodle-ang-fall, di-id-all
Do-lang-fall, did-ay
· Chet Earp, 70, of Snyder, Neb., disconnected his doorbell. Chet disconnected his doorbell after a door-to-door window salesman rang at last Wednesday. Chet isn’t saying when he’s going to reconnect the doorbell. Depending on the brakes, Chet disconnects and reconnects his doorbell three or four times a year. Chet is blissfully unaware if he’s related to Wyatt Earp, the famous Old West Lawman.
· Faye Ratcliff, 66, of Shickley, Neb., was knocked for a loop when some pranksters put an eight-foot tall cement Sasquatch in her rose garden, but she reports she’s gotten used to the cement Sasquatch. She’s going to spray paint it like pink.
· Conrad Haskell, 64, of Arlington, Neb., colossally wants to move where the action is. Conrad’s wife, Sabrina, wholeheartedly agrees. “Arlington is so quiet on Saturday nights that you can hear Sunday morning coming,” testified Sabrina, 61, who is an acclaimed former go-go dancer from Butte, Montana.
Much obliged,
Haywood Fudd
King of the Literary Daredevils
PO Box 345
Elkhorn, Nebraska 68022
