.
I'm hungry, hungry. I worry down the "dope" that they deal out in the
dining room, then go back to my sanctum and finish on limey water and
crack-nells--you know what they are, a powdery sort of counterfeit cake
that chokes you to death if you happen to breathe while you're chewing
it.

Last night while trying to cut some stringy roast beef and still retain
my dignity, the man with the red tie said: "Put your other foot on it."
I'm afraid if I don't eat potatoes again, my stomach will shrivel so
that I will never be able to sit through a course dinner when I get
back. Potatoes distend it all right--I feel like I have swallowed one
wing of Fleischman's yeast factory whenever I eat them. You have to come
down on the meat with such force to make any impression on it, that more
gets pushed up between your teeth than goes down your alimentary canal;
then you spend the balance of the night squandering Japanese dental
floss. I unconsciously finish my prayers with "Lord preserve us from
the holy trinity of roast beef, roast mutton and roast pork."

You can recognise one of the clan in a moment by what is known as the
"Divorsay jaw." No feek and weeble expression on our faces but "Do or
die" is the look we have in our optics.

Every time I go to church I vow I'll never go again. The organ is
asthmatic and the wheezing gets on my gray matter.

The Judge has begun to wear a fur coat--Dakota cow fur, I think, and he
looks for all the world like a turkey gobbler in distress.

I sleep on what they call here a "sanitary couch." Can't fathom the
mystery of the name, for mine is so chucked with dust that I dream I'm
in a sand storm crossing the Sahara, and when I awaken my sympathies are
keen with the camel.

There's a new boarder here whose face looks like a chapel and every time
she opens her mouth you're afraid it's going to be the Lord's Prayer.
She wears a wide ruching which makes her look excited; distributes
tracts, and can't see a joke. She says she's Miss and leaves envelopes
around with "Mrs." written on them in red ink--modest writing fluid I've
always considered it.

Will you buy me some new puffs? Mine are all ratty and I feel
bare-footed without them. Enclosed is a clipping from my hair. Read it
carefully. False hair is no crime as long as it matches--like that
German song that says "Kissing is no sin with a pretty woman."

Have you caught "Three Weeks" yet? I had a violent attack a few days
ago. Cured it with