The Blog of David M. Conte

Tag: Letters

  • “Dear Jasmine, Terry Stopped Showering and Now Cleans Himself Only With Baby Wipes”

    My follow-up letter to Jasmine in Australia

    Dearest Jasmine,

    I’m so sorry we weren’t able to meet up with you at Pride Day in Sydney back in February. Terry has become very antisocial, and not to mention a real environmentalist.

    Back in March, he stopped showering and now cleans himself weekly with only baby wipes. He said each person has to do their part to combat climate change, and this is his way of doing it — by not showering.

    Anyhow, he and I are sitting here at a coffee shop in Montana and —

    “For crying out loud, Terry, get your fingers out of your mouth, you disgusting slob.” I’m so sorry, Jasmine. Terry has really let himself go in every way imaginable. He has the manners of a ravenous raccoon rummaging through a dumpster.

    For the past two years, he’s been sending weekly fan mail to Crispin Glover. He said something about Mr. Glover having “all the answers to life.”

    Anyhow, do you think you can make it out to Montana for a few days, Jasmine? I know it’s a long way from Sydney, but we’d really love to see you.

    Ever since Terry and I moved out here two days ago, we’ve been at each other’s throats. He insists we need to downsize from our Lumberjack Weed-Pro 420 camper. However, I beg to differ.

    It’s almost like Terry’s become a different person since finding that Dwyane The Rock Johnson mask on the side of the road back in Ding Dong, Texas, where we lived for a short while. He wears it all the time. I just want to punch him in the face when I see him with it on.

    Oh, Jasmine, I’m sorry. I’m going on about Terry and I forgot to tell you I —

    “Terry, what the hell are you doing? Get the fuck off me. I’m trying to write a letter here to Jasmine and I can’t do it if you’re cradling me and making crow noises.”

    Jasmine, listen, I’m so sorry. Terry’s been speaking in tongues and trying to lick his elbows ever since he took a high dose of DMT at the Dua Lipa concert in Albania.

    It’s just ridiculous.

    I mean, when was the last time you saw a grown man rub garlic aioli on his bare chest? Well, Terry did that to himself last week after his stupid friend Ferris dared him to. I swear, he’s so immature sometimes, Jasmine.

    By the way, I should probably tell you why I’m writing. I just — just feel so badly still about hanging off The Sydney Harbour Bridge that one time, and I —

    “Terry, knock it off right now, please! Stop doing The Sprinkler dance right in front of me. You’re not a rap star, Terry. I told you that I don’t know how many goddamn times.”

    Jasmine, I’m quite sorry again. Please do consider visiting me and Terry, will you? Montana has the best Bison burgers and cinnamon rolls in the country. If it would make you happy, the three of us could sit around Terry’s new battery-powered interactive teaching globe and listen to Oliver Anthony’s “Rich Men North of Richmond” to our heart’s content.

    “Terry, you fucker! Stop eating the flower petals off the flowers I just picked not even a half hour ago. Have you no shame, you son of a bastard?”

    Jasmine, I really must go now. Please write back and let us know if you’ll make it to Montana. Maybe at that point, Terry will have stopped eating everything he looks at.

    OK, be well, dear Jasmine.

    Hugs and handshakes,

    Davidu

  • “Dear Jasmine, Terry Is Back From the Dead”

    For what reason, I don’t know

    Dearest Jasmine,

    This morning, I awoke to the crinkling sound of wrapping and saw a shadowy figure standing at the foot of my bed, eating a Kit Kat. When I inched closer, I immediately got a whiff of the halitosis and this meant only one thing.

    It was fucking Terry. He’s back from the dead.

    Apparently, he was so thrilled two people showed up at his memorial at the local dump — one a maintenance worker on lunch break — that he asked God if he could come back to life for a few days. And can you believe it, God obliged?

    If you remember the last time I saw Terry alive, it was in our backyard. He was playing with an injured squirrel, making crow noises again , and in between singing Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.”

    To be honest, I wasn’t missing him all that much. A week before he died, he told me he’d eaten breakfast with an extraterrestrial he met in our backwoods near a muddy creek. Now that he’s back, I suppose I should want to make the best of it.

    I’ve planned for an evening at The Improv. Since I’m the only one who can see Terry’s shadowy figure, things might get a bit awkward when I start talking to the empty seat next to me. I hope nobody smells the awful Yeezy cologne Terry told everyone Willow Smith gifted him last summer when he showed up at her new Chanel eyewear launch event at the Malibu Village Mall. Willow was overheard saying to her assistant, “Girl, who is this weirdo? Just give him the cologne to get him out of here.”

    As if things couldn’t get more hokey, Terry has now requested we ride a tandem bicycle to The Improv, stopping first at a Chipotle to crush two chicken burritos with extra sides of guac, go halvesies on a cheese quesadilla, and order two Keto Salads Bowls to-go.

    Say, do you remember the time he embarrassed us at the town’s public pool by whacking those two Goth kids with a pool noodle?

    Their parents were horrified, but Terry kept at it, saying, “Billy Corgan from The Smashing Pumpkins is a recidivist who deserves to be back in jail for writing too many metaphorical lyrics!” We both know Terry was not a fan of literary devices such as metaphor, allegory, juxtaposition, and alliteration.

    Terry! Get off me, you animal! I’m so sorry, Jasmine. Terry won’t stop dry-humping my leg and whispering in my ear, “I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart.”

    Anyway, I hope we can catch up now that the 2024 US presidential election is over. Terry has a crush on Tulsi Gabbard and thinks RFK Jr is making the greatest conspiracy theorist.

    Sorry, Jasmine, I must go now. Terry just urinated on the kitchen floor for no conceivable reason.

    I can’t wait until he’s dead again.

    Your friend,

    Davidu