Stu entertains the aboriginal Indianans in Gary, IN.
Oh humidity, how I miss thee! It feels so grand to be swaddled in your moist bosom. How could I have been away from you so long, Indiana?
I'll tell you how. Your factorial stench has more than an aromatic presence; its existence is a physical force which can push away the dullest olfactorian.
I've never liked Indiana nor do I care for its corn and flatness. I dare say Indiana makes Twiggy seem voluptuous. But I did enjoy this state's people and humidity. Roger, an old pal of mine, met up with me amongst Gary, Indiana's smoky industrial parks and we frolicked in the water laden air for the better part of a week.
Roger and I ran through rows of corn, hiding from each other. The old lad has quite a spark! We then espied a lonely meadow in need of some friends. Crafty old Roger smithed a kite out of some fallen leaves and twigs. We tied it to the ball of twine I keep in my pocket at let it soar. Our spirits were flying with it as we stood in that grassy field staring at Roger's beautiful creation jumping and diving in the gray, sooty sky. I skipped about, freely spewing happy verse. Roger commented upon my prowess, shouting, "Stuart Gimble! You are this nation's only true Laureate!" Thank you, dear Roger, my heart's only true friend.
Alas, our party was quashed! The poor old meadow upon which we danced was none other than a filthy lot belonging to General Motors. They wished us off their property. We complied, but not before Roger gave them the raspberries, if you know what I mean. That wily old dog, what will we do with him?
More to come next week.
A radiant gem of a dispatch, I only wish had alighted 'pon its august prose sooner.