Ben Franklin
Philadelphia, Pa.                                              

July 1776

Dear Benji,

Why haven’t I heard from you? If you had time to sign those declarations, and had the quill out, couldn’t you drop me a line?

Sure, I received your thank-you note for the Chinese urn I sent, but I was hoping for a real letter. Not that your musing are always cheerful, anyhow.  Why do you still resent being one of fifteen children?  So, you had to wear hand-me-downs. So? Your sister isn’t much bigger than you, Mr. Complainer. If you are such a smarty-pants, why didn’t you tell your father that an ounce of prevention was worth – well, never mind.

I want to set you straight and as your mother, I have a right. My friend said you were seen in congress last week wearing those stupid little spectacles. Are you aware that all the young girls are wearing them now, and they call them granny glasses? Are you a girl, Benji?  Are you a Granny? Stop it!

She saw you flying something in the sky that looked like underwear!  Honestly, Benji, can’t you at least do that in the privacy of the backyard?  I thought you were over that little fetish. You are lucky they don’t put you away.        

Speaking of luck, you are pushing yours. Everyone knows about all your escapades, and if you are not careful, your wife – what’s-her-face – is sure to find out. Regarding the new one you’ve been sneaking around with, Penny Worthington. Benjamin, listen to your mother, I am telling you for your own good. The next time you are with that slut, and you hear your wife approaching, you had better hide her in the urn. Believe me, a Penny urned is a penny saved. Oh, stop with the groaning!

About the stove you shipped me; you know I am proud that you made it yourself, but to tell you the truth, I find I get much more use out of the little Hibachi I got at Sears. 

Another thing baldy;   stop brushing your remaining three hairs to the front. Who do you think you are fooling?  Do what one of your buds and co-signer Jacob Broom did.  Snip those stupid hairs.  Once you are used to it, you will look smashing.

Speaking of smashing, that is exactly what I wanted to do to your nose after I read your latest remark, “when man and woman die, as poets have sung, his heart’s the last that moves; her last, the tongue.” That was so typically choov . . . Chauvin . . . Shavinis . . . Well, you know what I mean.  One more slur like that, and you’ll have to change the name of your almanac to “poor Bennie’s.” By the way, there is no “k” in the word “almanac” sweetheart.

I don’t mean to sound angry. You are my son, and I am concerned. You are always coming out with those silly little expressions for no apparent reason. What’s with “snug as a bug in a rug”?  You pull those statements out of the air when no one is even talking to you. And if you say, “time is money, time is money” one more time, you will be punched in your printing press!

Mostly, I am worried about your instability. You have been a candle maker, a printer, an editor, an inventor, a scientist, a philosopher, and a statesman. I mean, how do you think that looks on your employment application?      

Frankly, Benji, I think you need help which is my true reason for writing.  I just heard about a new therapy group that would benefit you. Some people are in even worse shape than you. One of them is a woman called Marie Curie.  She insists on being called Madame, of all things. Anyway, her husband persuaded her to go to the group, because she cannot cook worth a darn. He says every time she goes into the kitchen, he hears pots rattling and things bubbling on the fire, but when he asks, “what’s for dinner?” She says, “nothing.”  It is driving him nuts.

There is also a man named Morse there. What a nervous Nellie! He cannot sit still for a minute without tapping his fingers – on tables, chairs, anything he gets his hands on. Do not sit next to him!

I know the group would be good for you. Listen, Benji, I only want you to find yourself – to be happy. Perhaps if you listen to your mother, you will amount to something.

Most of all, remember what you, yourself, told me. “If a man empties his purse into his head, no one can take it from him”.

What the fukiama does that mean? Get help, hon.

Love,
Mom

Dancin, Schmancin with the Scars: Finding the Humor No Matter What! received a smashing review from Wit and Humor Magazine and others. Buy some books, donate to veterans, hospitals, friends in need of a chuckle and others who want techniques to get to a joyful place. Or at least write a blurb if you like it, too. If not write on someone else's page. If you are on Goodreads, please consider suggesting this satirical survival book.   BUY YOUR COPY TODAY

Photo by: Canada Post, "The 250 Year Commemorative Stamp - Ben Franklin. New stamp commemorates 250 years of formalized postal service in Canada"