JOKER ANSWERS HIS FAN MAIL

First off, I’d like to say thank you to all my fans who sent postcards, e-mails and even a few old-fashioned letters to me. There’s nothing I like more than answering these queries. I call it “damage control”. But enough of that, already. Let’s get to the mail…

My first question comes from Charles in Cedar City, Ohio. Charles asks, “Will your next kiss be a mistake?”

Why would ANY kiss be a mistake, Charley ol’ boy? As long as it doesn’t involve the chewing and swallowing of the tongue.

That one was easy. Come on, Chuck, if you’re gonna waste my time with lame-ass questions you might as well save yourself the trouble. Next time I won’t bother with you.

Next up in the pile, a letter from Corrina, who writes, “Dear Joker. I am an elderly woman living on a fixed income. I have no one to care for me and I’m prone to falling down regularly. The Fire Department say they won’t bother sending out people to help me up if I don’t do something about the situation. So I was hoping you might shed some insight by answering the one question I really need to have answered right now: When was the last time you cried?”

Goodness gracious, Corrina. That’s hard one. It has been a long, long time. Let me ponder it for a moment…(60 seconds later)…okay, I recall it now. I was watching a movie, “Reservoir Dogs”. There’s this scene in it were a hoodlum is torturing a cop, pouring gasoline on him, threatening to set him ablaze. Then he cuts that motherfucker’s ear right off the side of his noggin. With a straight razor. I thought “Well, goddamn! That’s got to hurt!” And they were playing an old song by Stealer’s Wheel in the background, “Stuck in the Middle With You”. It really made an impression on me, because two weeks later, when the classic rock radio station played the song, I had to pull to the side of the road as memories of the unlucky police officer flooded my mind. The blood. The screams. The stench of gasoline. The cold, glistening steel of the blade that severed his ear. It was all too much. I thought, “That could have been me. Damn straight, it could well have been me.” So, in a wave of empathy I burst into tears. My entire being was shaken as the sobs racked my body. I felt the pain of existence deep in my belly and the tears flowed like sweet honey from the rock. Just thinking about it now makes me sad.

So let’s move on, shall we?

Dave “Big Dave” Davidson, a proud citizen of Jacktown, Colorado, sends a video shout-out to the ole Joker, via YouTube. He says, “Joker, you are one incredible human being. You’re like Superman, as far as I’m concerned. Like Superman with no super powers and a back pack filled with Kryptonite hanging from your shoulders like a merciless albatross. I say that in a good way. So tell me this…where is your biological father right now?”

Alas, Mr. Davidson, I am unable to answer your question for fear that I might incriminate myself in regards to a murder investigation that is currently in the “cold case” files at the OSBI. As for all the Superman junk…what makes you think I don’t have any super powers? And that’s not Kryptonite in the back pack. It’s next month’s rent. A nice big haul from the land of great coffee, Columbia.

A couple of quickies before I have to leave (just for now, folks, I have a lot more mail to answer).

To “Jen in the Pen”: No, I am not currently involved in a relationship.

To Lonesome Bill from Pawhuska: What bothers me? Not knowing the reason for any of this.

To Elle (of Ozark Back Porch fame): No, I have never “made out on a boat”. I have, however, made lunch on a boat.

To “the Crusher”: Yes, I have seen many people being shot and/or stabbed. I have seen them, I have pulled the trigger on many of ‘em, and yes, I have plunged knives into several backs. I have seen and dealt out uncountable means of extinguishing the spark of life within the souls of many so-called friends (and one or two ACTUAL friends who momentarily pissed me off). Death is the card that I deal, and so, “Crusher”, I am surprised that you were unaware of my cruelty.

And finally, to the girl with the thorn in her side, somewhere in San Paulo, Tennessee: My cock ring is pink. I think that was the only color available in the machine from which I purchased it. It was only a quarter when I bought it. It’s never been used, I’m somewhat ashamed to say. It has become quite useless having been stored in my wallet for so many years. Send me a P.O. Box and I’ll mail it to ya.

Till next time, this is the ol’ Joker saying, “Keep them cards and letters coming!”

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