This sucks. The weather is ridiculous. The
Yesterday, one of our supply wagons fell into a gorge. Can you believe that? A fucking gorge. It had four cases of Smirnoff Ice. Lost! We still have the three cases of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Which is okay. But then the worst, one of our canons sank right into the mud. What a tragedy. I had stashed two bottles of Negro Modelo down the barrel. I was really looking forward to those.
Some of the men don’t even have rifles. It’s terrible. I sold them to get a case of Harpoon IPA. I have written the Congress to tell them of our grave situation. We desperately need reinforcements. And they need to bring at least six cases of Pilsner Urquell.
I gave the Bacardi Silver to some local Indian chiefs. Hopefully they won’t try any before we’re long gone. That stuff is awful.
Which got me to thinking. I really do miss you, Martha. Those long walks in the back yard, sitting on the veranda, sipping Goldschläger. Can you believe they forgot to bring the Ace Pear Cider? I mean of all the stupid things to forget? God dammit. I am missing you Martha. Your tender touch. Kissing you in the balmy night, the taste of Absolute Cherry still on your lips. God I hate Bacardi Silver.
I will write again as soon as I can move.
Your Loving Husband,