Depew Delivers the Post
Cell Block Prinz Dietmar: I’ve crossed the wires near the HRH J Mansfield RSS feeder and thus am coming to you in real time once again. Being behind bars I must take care not to alert the guards to my blogging activities. With Marge at large, my sole remaining ally is Baron Holstein, who owes money to the Dowager Princess. Holstein is quite mad, believing himself to be Scooter Libby. It’s not clear how he came to such a pass; he spends his days adapting Bob Dylan songs for the tuba. Last night he played FROM A BUICK SIX until menaced into silence.
Depew, the embittered dogsbody turned traitor, dropped by to deliver a number of new releases although he failed, probably deliberately, to bring my French Horn. Holstein and I have written numerous letters to the Wellington Leg Intelligencer in the hopes of throwing light on the ghastly conditions here. Your reporter is still applying coats of Silly Putty to mighty walls of this edifice; it’s thirsty work, my friends, requiring nerves of steel. Through an oversight the guards delivered a jack hammer I’d ordered online: I hope this doesn’t seem to be too much of a deus ex machina in aid of my escape plans. They did, however, remove my shoes.
While the mad Holstein plays the tuba I jack hammer the walls. Oh, the dust! Luckily my wind machine, obtained in pieces through a catalogue, blows gales of the stuff through the ventilator shaft. The only exercise permitted are the fencing sessions on the roof. I was able to julienne a turnip with my sabre in the kitchen this morning; alas, all too brief an interlude! Ironies abound since it was the throwing of a turnip that landed me here in the first place. A bitter irony to be sure. Well, it looks as though curried figs are on the menu again. YHS, The Earl.