(Dear Readers: It did seem to me that the following two letters, different though they appear on the surface, deal with essentially the same issue, which I deal with.below. A.W.)
(Letter #1)
Dear Wendy:
It has always been and it will always be Daisy.
Daisy.
We first met when I was much younger, much less experienced, unfamiliar with the ways of the world. I can remember the first time I saw her in the movie theater. She was like a bright white light flickering on an off. She would stop, I would stare, she would flicker. She seemed above me somehow — almost unreachable, not of this Earth. Perfection is Daisy. Her simple bracelet, her understated bow. She exuded a confidence lacking in mere mortals.
It took me years to get up the nerve to speak to her. Certainly, we had exchanged pleasantries once years ago, but I did not expect her to remember. I was barely a man — still with some Dakota hay in my hair.
But with Daisy there was no hay; in fact, there was no hair.
Wendy, are you interested in basic human rights? Are you and your committee willing to take a stand and join the right side of history? I have the will and means to pay you for your time.
I have been reading the papers, and have been following with great interest the movement in the United States of America, this great nation, to legalize marriage between two men, or two women. It seems like just a matter of time before this becomes a reality. Then it will be my time, our time, time for Daisy and me.
Everyone should have the choice to marry whomever or whatever he/she loves. It’s a personal and fundamental freedom. The fact that Daisy, our Daisy, is a duck should make no difference. When will the love that dare not quack its name be spoken?
We have struggled, the two of us. Her unsuccessful liaison with that abusive enraged Donald, always yelling never saying anything, is behind us. Certainly, the narrow-minded of the world can only see Daisy married to that mad-duck, but is that fair for Daisy? For me?
I myself have had a checkered past. My web of love is filled with Daisy’s, but this time Wendy, this is the real thing. I have offered, as testament to my seriousness and love, to adopt those parentless nieces of hers, April, May, and June Duck. We will be a family, a blended family, a planned family.
I hope you will support us in our quest for trans-species rights.
“Trans-species is special” is our cry.
Thank you for your time,
Your friend,
Jay Gatsby
West Egg
(And Letter #2, continuing the problems caused by our friend Bill’s tomcatting around…)
Wendy-
Just thought I’d dash off a quick note to you to let you know what’s happening. Junior, I hope you’re sitting down because I have got some news for you. A couple of nights ago, a few of the girls and I were down at the Algonquin, having a couple of drinks and trading some shop talk. I’d just ordered another gimlet when all of a sudden Lois Lane mentions Bill the Cat (or should I say Rat?). Seems Lane got curious when she heard about the whole Madame Butterfly story, did some poking around, and found out some very interesting things. Apparently there was a bit of a scandal a few years ago in some small town in New England, involving a certain Miss Dolores Haze. Young Miss Haze was still in high school when your friend Bill met up with her, which did not make Mama Haze very happy. Word is that Bill threw some money at the cops, and hushed up the whole affair.
We were wondering where this clown is getting all of this money to pay off the cops and travel to Japan. So Mary Richards pipes up that he sounds like the same Romeo who bilked Old Mother Hubbard out of her cash years ago. Honey, why do you think that cupboard was bare. Murphy Brown stopped by to say hello (she gave up drinking years ago, but she’s still a barrel of laughs) and tells us about a pair of English sisters by the name of Dashwood whom Bill allegedly left destitute. Sisters, the idea! What a louse. Speaking of sisters, Brenda Starr was sure she saw Bill with Mary-Kate Olson in the front row at the Marc Jacobs fashion show.
So we put our heads together, and decided that we need to blow the lid off this story. Sweet Polly Purebread is doing a series on “interspecies love” and apparently has some human gals lined up who would be happy to sing like canaries about their experiences with that cat. Some French dame named Fantine apparently had a heck of a time with him. He may have been the father of her kid. Some cabaret singer named Sally Bowles just got back from overseas, and apparently has some steamy that she would like to share with the ladies of the press. We even called in our chits and got a couple of the boys in on this caper. Tintin and Kermit the Frog said they’d go undercover as a rich heiress and maiden aunt to trap Bill in one of his schemes. You would be surprised how good those fellows look in a skirt and heels.
Anyway, Wendy, just want to let you know what’s brewing We’ll try to keep your group out of the stories as much as possible, but you know Old Man Kane has a grudge against you, and would love nothing more than a nice smear campaign.
See you in the funny papers-
Hildy Johnson
ASK WENDY comments:
Now we have two letters here, on the surface about as different as they could be. One is a lyrical and romantic plea for tolerance. The second is a fast-talking, from-the-side-of-the-mouth account of, well, let’s admit it, how far modern journalism has fallen.
But at the bottom, both are about the same issue: whether any adult’s sex life, any adult of any species, is the concern of anyone other than the two people (or animals) involved.
Of course not. In all cases of love, whether gone right or wrong, between two consenting adults of no matter what species, anyone not directly involved should just BUTT OUT.
Why exactly do we drift into thinking it is the business of outsiders possessing little lives of their own, journalists trying to revive dying circulations, or governments intent on distracting the population from matters of real importance to the community, like, say, the substitution of torture for foreign policy, or the conduct of an illegal war?
I mention all this here because I can see what’s coming. A series of self righteous emails has already arrived in my Inbox from Little Orphan Annie and her Committee to Elect Sarah Palin and Get The Country Back on the Moral Track God Intended for It. There will be action and reaction. I bow my head to the inevitable. But you can’t make me say it matters one whit if Jay Gatsby wants to nest with Daisy. We have got more important things to worry about. And so what if Bill the Cat wants to screw every female fictional character fool enough to fall for his sputtering malarkey?
Adult females, mind you. If he makes a pass at Bristol Palin, I’ll be the first one to go ballistic. Although at least then she won’t have to worry about birth control.