Dr Brainbender Drools - camp letter #2
How is camp? I hope you're having fun and getting to do all the cool things the camp has to offer. Here at home things are ticking along as usual, with the obvious exception of our Zorblagian house guests, Dr Claudius Brainbender and the disgusting little sycophant, Fang.
They spent most of the day in your room, and emerged only occasionally to ask for a screwdriver, some duct tape, a light bulb and small melon baller. The whole evil doctor routine continues, with occasional bursts of maniacal cackling, and the old "I will destroy this miserable, backwards galaxy!" malarkey.
As long as they keep the bathroom clean, I'm happy to put up with the occasional galaxian overthrow rant.
To be honest though, I'd rather not know what is going on in that room. I hear rustling in drawers, clattering around in your closet, the occasional whiff of electrical burning, and that annoying high pitched whine a radio makes when it is just off the chosen station. Once, the doctor emerged briefly to ask if I knew of a local supplier of trilithium resin or at least a reputable medical supply company in the Grand Rapids area.
However, their table manners are another matter entirely. It's hard enough, in an almost all male household, to keep things genteel at the dinner table, but clearly I have failed to understand the subtleties of Zorblagian etiquette. Dr Brainbender seems to have taken to Earth food with gusto and particularly enjoys a honey, pickle, tuna, mustard, banana, peanut butter, and olive sandwich. Yes, sandwich, singular. All of those things stacked between two slices of bread.
He also likes to show us everything he's eating with his open mouth - apparently the highest compliment one can show to your hostess on Zorblag. If some food escapes and drops back to the table in a sloppy puddle, your hostess is likely to be so delighted, why, she'll be sure to invite you back for Thanksgiving dinner to meet the rest of the family.
Fang's manners, not to mention his breath, are so foul and abhorrent that I have made him eat on the floor with the cats. He appears to have many feline qualities in common with earthling cats, so I feel this is the appropriate place for the drooling, regurgitating, burping and farting that seem to make up his dinner routine. He growls and grunts as he eats, with occasional outbursts of "I will destroy this miserable backward collection of felines!"
The other cats are treating him with disdain but I suspect this is also laced with fear of catching Zorblagian cooties. Wherever he sits, he leaves a slightly damp and moldy green patch, the origin of which I'd just rather not contemplate right now.
Attached: In an arresting display of what is known as "droonking" (drinking/drooling), Dr Brainbender tries to impress me with his grasp of the fine art of Zorblagian table etiquette. Delightful, no?
More tomorrow Sam. We love you.
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