Dear Mister Ed

By the time the carry’er pidgins make it up to the Youcon with this, Unkle Walts and Evas nupshuls will allready have came and went.

Wisht I cud tell you more, but its two days off yet at this end, and the blushin’ bride is still playin’ coy on some of the finer points, like when and where and who.

What I can tell you mite seem hard to beleave. Fer instants, this here letter comes all the way from the top floor of a swanky hi-risin’ place jest off downtown Loss Vegas, Nevadda.

Cross my heart and spit on a frog Darrol, yers truely is smack in the heart of the Cappital City of Temptashun. Talk about a feller bein’ in over his head!

The shocker of it all is The Widdow did’nt jest rent this place fer the occashun. She owns the dang thing. And not jest the top floor. Shes the landlady of the hole kitten caboodle.

Turns out her and late Mister picked up a chunk of reel estate down here fer a song way back when Saleen Dion were’nt even a twinkle, and Paul Ancka was still singin’ to his baby sitter.

As you can imajin, havin’ a peace of this place has made fer a fair good nest egg over the years, and she still slips down here from time to time when shes of a mind fer a little golf’n get away in the dessert.

She was kinda keepin’ it seckrit on accounta not wantin’ Unkle Walt to feel bad about a nother feller bein’ involved. But Walt says hes too old to trubble his bald old head over whats in the passed.

Lunch time tomorra Evas gonna tell us what else is up ‘er sleave, and later shes got tickits fer all of us to see the Circkle de Solay, that fanssy jimnasticks show from Qwebeck.

Let me ast you this. What in heck wud show bizness be in the U, S, and A if it was’nt fer Canada, eh? Its been that way since little Mary Pickferd come down to these parts, and theres no let up in site.

Makes a poor old Spud Islander proud to be hummble, I tell you.

I sware I even seen Taggish Elvis go bye in a cab this mornin’. But after seein’ 7 or 8 more fellers jest like ‘im and all the dead spit of each another, I ain’t sure what to think anymores.

But if theres haff a chance of getting’ a sqwint at Shaneyea Twane, or even Stompin’ Tom, I’d set up camp here fer as long as it takes.

Darrol, I was fixin’ to tell you about the boat ride down here, but the truth is most of what I recall involves bein’ bent over the rail watchin’ my last meal head north.

If theres time some day I’ll tell you about Maisy, the Matron of Honner.

But its best I not get too far ahead of myself.

Yer pal,

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