Visitation – Fighting the Monkey Mind –
A letter to my new readers.
By Øle Ølesen (Pen Name)

A Narcissistic, Pretentious Revelation:

“Hey, well, I’m the friendly stranger in the black sedan, Woncha hop inside my car. I got pictures, I got candy, I’m a lovable man, and I can take you to the nearest star. I’m your vehicle, baby, I can take you anywhere you wanna go. I’m your vehicle woman, by that I’m sure you know. I love ya (love ya), I need ya (need ya), I wants ya, gots to have you child. Great God(s) in heaven, you know I love you.”*


Kalliope, Klieo, and Erato appeared TO ME, out of nowhere – swirling foggy forms – solidifying before me and – in unison – softly whispered orgasmic, muffled cries:


[Aside: Now you as the reader may be starting to yawn – yeah you. You have to understand that abstract writing can be a curse to a writer desiring publication. Yet, while one does it – joy feeds the mind with tidbits of truth, eventually crawling and dripping out of your brain-birth-canal into your published “vehicle,” with pure un-adulterated, clear precise writing thoughts and memories that hopefully rivet. So – while I practice trying to achieve this, you’re allowed to read and hopefully delve into the workings of a deranged, insane mind, full of mythical beings. I owe all these thoughts to Edgar Allan Poe.]


Kalliope said I called all three of them out of my mottled and rattled, old monkey-mind.**

I don’t know how they got in. I had no idea who the hell they were, where they came from and what the fuck they wanted. Quickly researching the Internet to see who they were, and why they presented themselves before me – I had a deep suspicion.

[Aside: Yes, I set myself up this morning as the ‘KING’ of our great room. It’s an ‘El’ off the main house, built by a heavily degreed Masonic Freemason, years after the original builder – a one Captain Rutherford – a ship captain and friend to Daniel Webster, set himself up as ‘Captain’ of the main house, built in 1808 in Salisbury, NH.]

Who knew there would be an unexpected visitation, on this most auspicious day?
To my astonishment – I found they came from Mount Olympus and were tired of catering to Apollo – these – the first three daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. I considered myself blessed to be interviewed and enamored by these three lovely ladies.

[Aside: Apparently their parents thrashed around in bed for nine days producing nine little Greek god bambinos called: Muses. Who knew?]

Being unaccustomed to their fanciful desires I asked if they were absolutely sure I entreated them to come and visit me?

Klieo, the second to speak – a most regal goddess adorned with a green laurel wreath – her body entwined within a parchment scroll winding up between her creamy legs, tweeted and heralded the first breathy pronouncement:

“OUR ’KING!’ – we’ve heard your cries! Cries for a Muse – all over the Internet! We felt our duty to intervene, stroke your ego and ‘loosen’ you up for tasks laying ahead. Writing-Proclamations are forthcoming. We shall shout from roof-tops of the El – the Epic Great Room!”

(I knew this was indeed a dream come true or a scam, for I’d continued looking for a muse in my social media profiles. And, of course Klieo visited Twitter to hear my cry. Alas, I wanted to know how they all knew- the ‘one’ moniker – out of the myriad names given throughout my lifetime, how did they choose to call me “King?” Oh my god. They didn’t discuss knowing their place, my place and the kingdom I formed secretly.)

Kalliope responded again, after reading my mind and said:

“Øle – it is our sacred duty to ingratiate you with our laurels, legal binds and nourishments, within the bones (memories) of your brain, so you will crush as crush can. You shall be Great among all Great Crushers – females and males alike. There shall be no stones unturned nor unmeasured. No competition against all resolves shall impede. You shall write as we implore and implore you on and on, forever and ever. Though, through prior human agency – messengers were sent to you, ignoring and refusing to listen, because you knew it would not happen, until we appeared here and now. SO –

You deserve a spanking.

Therefore, in accordance with your monkey mind and creaky mind farts – there shall be NO narcissistic or pretentious embellishments of any form. It is forbidden. So let it be written. So let it be done. And – in the ways of Solomon’s temple – created in his mind through Melchizedek: So Mote It BE.


Oh My Goddess – the final “AMEN” to her directives! I marveled at her Solomonic wisdom and wondered if she had worked with good ‘ol Sol – too – for I found out she was the main primo-agent for Homer’s publications of The Iliad and The Odyssey.

Her hair was raven black and she looked at me with Bette Davis eyes. Blue as blue complete, and seen through crystal glasses – sparkling and seething like an age old sex-siren – clothed with all knowledge of any delicious MILF, prone to mate. Whose voice dripped with desire, enamoring me into submission for their combined future ecstasies in writing. Her shapely hour-glass body, smeared and slathered in delicious scents, along with emerald green and royal blue shawls and her head adorned with a golden crown. She moved – gyrated – within the Epic Great Room with hip wonders and wet effects. I was indeed fully enraptured, inspired and engorged by this saucy woman and thought of the Beatles’ song: “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road!” – I therefore, pulled down my pants.

She magically formed a tablet and stylus out of the newly moistened air of The Great Epic Room and proceeded to write calligraphy letters, dripping from her pen – something you’d see ancient scribe monks do – scrunched over ancient Egyptian Nile parchments, writing and re-writing, over and over again, to perfection – the secret words of the supposed: One True god and KING.

I sensed she’d be writing for a while, as she didn’t roll up her sleeves ready to spank me. So, I took it upon myself to entreat the third of these beauties, asking her who she was, as I pulled up my pants (thankfully when the writing was done) and why she also presented herself before me. I both relished and worried about her impending reply:

“My name is Erato and I’ve come to eat you, for you are delicious – like a pomegranate in full ripe season. You are wonderful! I shall help you! I have helped you! For it was I taught you the lyre, sang to you songs and lyrics for publication that failed and are no longer. And poetry, already posted on your word-press site and Twitter that went nowhere. Airy dispensations! You shall be mine forever and we will make love and babies and well, I just love KINGS!”

Oh my goddess. After she said this, I wasn’t sure if I could trust her – she sounded just like a third-born child, lying through her teeth and I wondered if she was an April child – you know – an Aries. (I’ll admit it – I’m all three.) Thinking to be careful with this one, I downplayed her obsequious tendencies and wore a male chastity belt, just to protect myself for obvious reasons. (not that my junk was anything to write home about…)

All these emanationists, cut to my quick with their sexy pronouncements, binding declarations and legally deemed assertions, seemingly springing from a dangerous Pandora’s Box – somewhere hidden in The Epic Great Room. My mind reeled and threw out flies attached to thin, airy, fly fishing lines. Oh the lines! Oh the fish! Oh the flies! What will I catch! (I smelled tuna)

I felt my self – lighter, looser and floating off my chair into the upper recesses of The Epic Great Room. A signet ring placed on my middle finger by a soft, loving, ever enduring hand and a crown of laurel green leaves, lighted upon my head.

My clothing, stripped from me in a circular swirling motion, amongst the dark-brown timber-frames of the cathedral ceiling and replaced with a velvety, white, shear silk toga, slithering around my old fat shape, to form the delectableness of an erected NORSE GOD they pined for – I floated and churned toward their charmed sexual wants and spells, grabbing out with open hands and fingers and closed fists again, willing my own aromatic pheromones to entrap these three, inviting, Muses. But, alas – at my age, I couldn’t poke Jell-O.

These female gods, in turn, suddenly disappeared and I was left to view The Epic Great Room with mended eyes – fish scales dripping like tears from them – no longer chained to a fixed cloaked vision. I clearly viewed the early morning sunlight emerging from the eastern window panes – cascading shafts and prismed light with all colors of the rainbow, exploding throughout what was now AN EPIC GREAT HALL – cavernous and powerfully built – seemingly, with the Cedars of Lebanon. The odors of myrrh, aloes and frankincense smelled tastefully and wafted from the ancient paneled woods lining the walls. Golden hues of sunlight exploded from the western windows, as the day immediately shifted to an ending carousel of ‘Magical Light,’ (coveted by all directors of photography and cinematography, from every award winning film ever made) – that mystical golden illusionary-light, permeating the earthen sphere in early morning or evening twilights.

My emerald green-glass-shade-lamp, on my ancient oak-round-table, shone with more brilliance and highlighted its golden lamp-stand – as if I was in Solomon’s Temple – just before the Red Heifer is sacrificed and shiny crimson blood spurts forcefully into drains, feeding the lower earth with the feeding force of life, welling up into my life as a writer. My life now is writing. I must write. I’ve been spanked.

I could feel the book cases behind me move and shake – running, circling, gyrating books, coming alive and all speaking again, without need to visually read. All those books through the years brought forth secrets, bloodied and washed-up upon the shelves, dripping with love, hate, greed, joy and memories shared by many crushed bones – by the many authors before me. I bowed in obedience to them, as a King to greater Kings.

One shelf contains epic memorabilia of the Great Lambeau Field and Brett Favre – with memories of massively long, historic, touch-down passes – with screaming crowds enveloping touch-down Packer Players – their signature leaps and grabs – I among them!

I smelled hot-dogs, French-fries and beer-spilling fans, drunk as skunks by the end of 3rd quarter – when all sales finalize and smelly urine leaked floors define the lavatory halls of the stadium johns, where bloody fights start with Bear fans.

And a lone, old, white wrinkled man, in the stands, accosted and fondled by horny drunk Milwaukee girls wanting to ride it out after the 4th quarter, grinding on his aged limp lap, hoping they’ll create a massive thick pogo stick to achieve their orgasms.

Oh my gods. What have these Muses done? Have my abstract thoughts become clear and precise?

Where will it take me?

Where should I go?

Should I stay?

Or should I go?



Till next time,


d. Øle Ølesen

*Monkey-mind – Natalie Goldberg’s descriptive moniker for the critical/editing/procrastinating mind – one of the greatest reasons for never getting published.

** “Vehicle” – Single (A side) by The Ides of March – from the album Vehicle; Released March 1970; Format 7″ single; Recorded CBS Studios in Chicago; Genre Funk, rock; Length 2:56; Label: Warner Bros. (US); Songwriter: Jim Peterik; Producer(s): Bob Destocki, Frank Rand

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Short, Fat, Bald and Sixteen


1970 – 1972

Feb. 2014 – Sep. 2021

re-edited 9.27.16, 1.1.19 & 9.17.21 by Øle Ø.

(Diary And Letter Confessions of a Gay Sixteen Year Old in a homophobic era among other niceties…)

(Author’s note: Additions to these diary confessions are on-going until all found letters are presented)

Written by: Robert Douglas Allan circa: 1953-1986*

and & Øle Ø.- 1952-?


Redacted by: Øle Ø.


Forwarded by: Øle Ø.


Introduction by: Anonymous Man


Written in long hand – 1970-72 (maybe some typed)

Computer retyped and redacted: February 2014 thru September 27th, 2016, January 2019 & Sept. 2021.


(51 years in the making)


(Names are changed to protect the guilty)



Hello. I am Øle Ø., a retired actor and former member of the SAG-AFTRA – actor’s union. (stated here, to formulate some sort of semi-credential, which of course has no consequence in the scheme of all things…) I’m an educated fool & all around Bon Vivant, versed in literature, well-read of Edgar Allen Poe at age 7-8, a self-taught finger-style guitarist, I’ve attempted writing novella, prose, poetry and created art, postulated time quarks, traveled to distant worlds beyond our system, and without wasting anymore of your time (I cannot get into specifics at the moment and you may realize that some of what I just wrote is a pack of lies and are ‘mostly’ true, though…), I must proceed forward.

Strangely, it was in the year of our Alien Gods – post 1986 – [the real year is unknown] a secret treasure trove of personal letters were found, in an old trunk [location not disclosed and hidden from authorities] written by many different teenagers of the human species and all came into my possession.

I was sailing the oceans of the world on my 20 foot water yacht along the eastern coast of Canada, when a squall came up and pushed me toward an island full of oak trees – near a shore land called: Nova Scotia. I made for a small nearby port, limping along, as it were, where I was able to re-fast my stretched riggings, patch stern holes, repair bow leaks and set off willy-nilly again, as soon as the weather would clear and I’d keep moving forward. The remarkable thing about this Island, was the shear wonder and spookiness of the place. I felt as if I’d landed here in another life and damn sure I had buried treasure somewhere, brought from afar. However, I kept to my promise of meandering on, toward another port further down the coast.

Around the 3rd Sunday of the fourth month hence, I feared I would need more food, supplies and restful lodging and to set my feet straight on land again – as it were – thus sailing to another small inlet, while traveling back south toward the Bahamas. I carefully and slowly floated up an inside shallow river of no more than 3 fathoms and took out my personal glass and spied an abandoned stone-house along a willowy shore and sailed toward it, until I could go no further. The tide was going out and it was no use, but to wait until the yacht presently rested on its side, so I could jump to muddy sand, make my way up a path from a lone dock 10 yards away and find the all supplies I needed.

Remarkably, there were clams and oysters everywhere, which I dully collected and put in my travel satchel for my favorite stewed meal: Clam Chowder. In any event – when exploring I find it necessary to name places I discover and here-after, I christened the river: “CLAM CREEK.”

The sun would soon set and I had to find shelter for the night and thus broke into the old worn-down stone building, for any supplies I might use. Remarkably, I found an old Wollensak tape recorder from four and a half previous decades lying alone in a room full of dusty antique couches and pillows – adorned with nude paintings on the walls and various ash trays, bongs, lighters and old-sundry sexual items strewn about – placed on purpose, as if in a time warped setting and as if the items never moved since time created a loose inamorata of the infinite for whomever, whenever and of course: Why. However, I searched earnestly for my needed provisions.

Being the curious fellow I am, I of course tried to see if there was any electrical power in the house and to my amazement, a ceiling light flickered when I clicked a wall switch. I quickly turned the light off, (to remain hidden from prying outside eyes), started the old tape recorder and found myself astonished by what I heard.

I took two-full-hours of notes, which I cannot fully disclose here, but will share minute audible facts of in-human noises, screams, laughter and apparent sexual orgasmic cries of joy, yelling: “OH MORE DARLING!!! MORE!!! OH MY GOD!!! HARDER!!! DEEPER!!! GIVE ME ANOTHER HIT!!! And so on and so on, until I was given a detailed secret location, by a deep voice of strong bass oration – a stoner of the first real hippie order – revealing a buried trunk containing a treasure trove of writings, prearranged musically, and narrated in poetry, by various geometric, mathematical and counted step equations, filling my mind toward an “X” mark’s the spot in the front-yard of the Stoned Mansion.

I struggled to fix my pants and scampered to a shed at the back of the house to retrieve a shovel and headed to the yard and found an old worn tent, ripped and shredded – with old pillows stained with who knows what – and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt – this was where I was to dig – screams, soothing voices, equations or not.

Therefore, it is with great pleasure that I present the following first two chapters and letters of a one: R.D. Allan and correspondences between himself and a one: Lance Beauregard. (And a girl named: Shoe)

Post script:

#1. Researching these two fellows was very difficult and I’m not pre-disposed to disclose my reasons for research – had to tread lightly with witnesses, sources and interviewees – these fifty-one years hence. But, what I uncovered is most shocking.

#2. Surprisingly, one of the witnesses [an unknown/un-named source], revealed that these two individuals, were both certified raving lunatics, housed in an institution somewhere in the wilds of the state of New Hampshire, during years of the mid to late 1960’s on earth.

#3. In order to preserve the integrity of these teenage written letters written in long hand, most mistakes of grammar and spelling are included in following letter contents. Enjoy.

So let it be written. So let it be shared. And – SO MOTE IT BE.

~ d. Øle Ø.



By Anonymous Man

[the unknown Italians’ source and sauce]


Heya! Howa yous guysa doin!? HA HA HA! Guessa What!? – I knewa these a raving lunatics in a “school” and usea toowa watch dem sit and discuss things likea: “Tommy Testicle” and “Rose’s Boseses flew the Coop” and other various tell-all-tales of incesta. Ata times they woulda foola fellow students – tella lies – anda force feeda untrained, unprofessional, retarded teachers: utter poppya-cocka stories;

[you’da almosta shit youra pantsa laughing.]

One of them would barka dog ‘sounds’ ina class – make noises like da window wasa opened – winda blowing through it – like it wasn’t quite closeda – and, little squeaky noises coming from his eara – making soundsa as if there werea micea running arounda the class room. Yes – the other onea – Lance – was possibly morea thana certifiable.

(I founda photographs of thesea two wackos – by the way – see below.)

Lance and one of his “Lake” conquests.

But anyway – d. Øle  isa right – botha of thesea raving fly-bys werea reala peoplea and thesea area theira letters. And – EVERYTHING ISA ABSOLUTELY TRUEA! REALLY!!!

Robert Douglas Allan
1953 – 1986-7

{Important note: More letters have been found in a secret compartment of the metal box unearthed and are being collated as we speak…}




LETTER  6.30.70

Tuesday, June 30th, 1970

From Miss Brueney Shoe, Snowy Dr., Dover, NH

To: Lance P. Beauregard, Nutwood, NH

Dear Lance,

Too bad you weren’t at your house to receive my letters! I forgot to tell you in yesterday’s letter that you left a key here! Was it on purpose? (ha-ha) Could it be the key to the back door of your house – (ha-ha, little joke there)! Well just wanted you to know I was thinking of you and miss you!

My love always,

Miss Miss Breuney Shoe.


LETTER 7.7.70

Return address: RFD #1, Newmarket, N.H. 03857

To: Mr. Lance P. Beauregard, Route 4, Nutwood, N.H. 03261

Dear Lance:

I thought I’d write this letter while I’m still in a bad mood. By the time you get the letter we’ll both be in different moods, but, I still want to say a few things. Now, you may be asking your-self, who’s this guy think he is? Well, I’ll tell you, the reason I’m going to say what I’m going to say is because I think I’m a good enough friend to say what I’m going to say. (See what happens when I’m mad or upset rather I write like I talk!)

Well, what I want to say is that I don’t want to see you hurt. You’re to[o] great a guy to get hurt by a broad or young lady. I know you’re saying right now, “I never get hurt” but you weren’t exactly acting like a love-filled Romeo tonight, you looked more like Eddie Fisher. Oh, I know there’s not any trouble between you and Miss-Miss Breuney, but I can’t help having the feeling something unpleasant is going to happen. For the love of ivy don’t get hurt, dummy.

You talked about some girl in N.Y. you were going to have to see when you get back there. Why bother? You ought to take my new attitude on everything. Forget the old and baby ring in the new!

You’re always saying, “Lance Beauregard, Love ’em and leave ’em!”.  I somehow get the feeling it hasn’t always been that way. Especially, this particular time. In fact if you really want to know, (which you probably don’t, – I wouldn’t), I think your ‘saying’ is being used on you. For your sake I hope not. But where can you go with your relationship? And I don’t mean that! I mean that in only a few short weeks you’ll be in N.Y. and in the same position “Love ’em, leave ’em’, except that I’m afraid this time you’ll come out in the short end of the deal. Please, just be careful, huh? You know I’m the first one to defend you and her anytime anyone ever says anything about you two.  (Which has only happened a couple of times.) But just don’t get your funny, crazy little mind all bent up. I’ve discovered that after a few years of my own depression it’s really not worth it to be hurt all the time. It’s more fun to be fun.

Well, I hope you don’t get mad at me for what I’ve said. I’d be more than willing to have you tell me what’s-what about me. In fact you should tell me to mind my own business!

On to lighter things. I think that NYC apartment idea is great. Maybe by that time I’ll have a bigger movie camera – 16 mm – and can sell some movies? Oh ya, next time you present yourself down here, I want to discuss doing a movie with you, before you move! Well, I’ve got seven other people’s lives I have to straighten out, so I’ll just leave.

Robt. “Sigmund Frued” Allan————


LETTER 7.10.70

Return address:

RFD #1, Newmarket, N.H.03857

Date & Time: 10:00 AM, ***Friday, July 10th, 1970***

To: Mr. Lance P. Beauregard, Camp Sluck, Sluck Haven, New Hampshire

Dear Lance,

This has been one hell of a night. First of all, my sister takes over my room to watch T.V., which means I have to go outside to write chapters 3 and 4 of my novel, which means I get all bitten up by misquatos. [sic] Then, I try to call you up in Ding Dongville [sic] or wherever the hell you are, I try 5 times no son of a bitch answers, I wreck my finger dialing, break a good nail. Then I’m lying in bed and some asshole lays a patch of rubber outside of the house right in front of it in fact. Seeing it’s Friday night and close to 11:00 PM I’m thinking to myself, “Tommy Corn-fuck hasn’t had enough of me, and now he’s after the Pontiac.”

Then I’m sitting here putting the heading on this letter and I look out the window, and there’s some nut with a flash light out in the yard. Wondering what some body with a flash light is doing in my yard, I go to my parent’s bedroom, knock, say: “excuse me, but someone is walking in our yard with a flash light father dear.” So he gets up and comes and looks out the window. “It’s just the neighbor calling his dog.”

Well, you know how close our neighbors on Hull Road are, So I say, “Oh well what in the hell was carrying that flash light, Swamp Gas?” [sic] AND THEN I also said, “What do you want me to do when I see someone in my yard at 11:00 at night, ask him in for tea?” So my father says, “Well you should have asked him what he was doing.” So I’m writing this testimony in 1/2 fear, 1/2 amusement, and 1/2 anger.


Lance, do you ever wonder why I write you every night? I mean, there is really no reason to write every night, but I do. The reason is, I’m terribly lonesome. At times I’m so lonesome that I could scream or cry off, in fact, sometimes I take out old tapes of people talking to me. But the main thing I do when I’m lonely is write letters. I make believe letter writing is a form of communication. Isn’t letter writing a form of communication? I’m lonely.

I’ve got to find a girl who is charming, funny, and a good listener – one who’ll accept me the way I am. That’s a hard bill to fill. Maybe I’m taking a wrong attitude in desiring to be acquainted with someone with those qualities, maybe I shouldn’t even bother trying to find someone like that. But if it’s one thing I won’t put up with it’s boring, dull, sexy blavetches [sic] without a brain. (of course you know I’m talking about the Miss Breuney types) Nothing personal, I just couldn’t stand Miss Breuney.

Well – take Busty-Lust, for example. Take away all the raw animal sex mistique[sic] about her, and what do you have? (a body!) Seriously, I mean I like Busty in a lot of ways, but she lacks personality wise. That’s it! I like a girl with a strong personality. Not strong in the sense of domineering, but strong in the sense of being, or having a personality, character.

Take for example Wammy Lekavitch. Now there’s someone with everything. Personality, character, she’s artistic, and in all of the right places. So, does that answer why I write to you? I’m in need of someone to talk to, that doesn’t bore me, or that I don’t bore. WAKE UP LANCE!

I’ve installed, installment 2 of SHORT, FAT, BALD and SIXTEEN.


Man, I’ve gotta have another dream, I’m running out of material.

with utmost regards,

***Robert Douglas Chandler Allan***

(I’m adding that [Chandler] to impress people.)

I won’t set a time to call or anything – Let me say just one thing, “I think I’m in love with the Keene N.H. operator.”

“The rates are lower all day Sunday” ~Thomas Edison to Alex Bell – June ’48.




MAYBERRY ← crossed out in script. RFD #1

Newmarket, N.H.03857 ← (just in case you need it)

Dear Lance Beauregard,

I decided to write my novel and send it to you two chapters at a time.

Remember to brush your teeth 3 times a day.

Remember to say your prays. Remember, don’t cut loose with the juice.



P.S. 659-5X5X – Person to Person – Robert Allan or/write

R.D. Allan c/o “Bubbles” La Trec

Ramada Inn

Room XY – 69 – (ha, ha)

Dover, N.H.







There I lay, clad in nothing but my Doctor Denton’s. [pajamas] The smell of Aqua-Velva filled the room. Then Miss Breuney entered. 5′ 2″, light green make-up around the eyes, brownish hair, a perfect 36-24-39, and that was only her left side. Some men didn’t like Miss Breuney, but I’m not one to holding a glass eye against a girl. She came over to me and gave me a long wet kiss, which produced my usual reaction. I started to laugh. (Her mustache always tickled me.) But I could tell her kiss was trying to tell me something. Trying to tell me that I was no good for her, that it was Ernestine I was good for, and that she no longer needed my love, she needed the love of George [of the Jungle.] But that George was to[o] involved with Miss Breuney at that present time. I kissed again to be sure.



Well, it was all over for me and Miss Breuney. Oh ya, we had great times together. But Miss Breuney needed a change (chronic bed-wetting), It was time to move on to another love, so to speak. I opened the door to my motel room and went on out.

There I saw her. She was sliding down the slide by the pool. SPLASH. Her loveliness filled the pool. So did her body. I think she knew I was watching her out of the corner of my eye. I proceeded to the motel lunch counter.

It was that night we got a chance to meet. I found out her name was Rancine. I could tell she was more that interested in me as a friend. I invited her to my motel room.


7 weeks later was the next time I saw Rancine; in fact it was the first time I saw anybody! I walked over to where she was sitting. “Lance”, she said, “I think I’m pregnant.”



LETTER FROM  Miss Breuney Shoe, Snowy Drive, Dover, NH

To: Lance Beauregard, Nutwood, NH

Monday, July 13th, 1970

Dear Lance,

I’m very sorry it has to be like this but – I’ve decided to go steady with Britchard. I never wanted to hurt you in anyway and I hope we can be good friends always, and I hope you’ll try to understand. Today wasn’t a very good way to start a relationship – I know you said you were sorry but the chances of it happening again are too great, not that I don’t understand the situation of today but from the beginning it hasn’t been right – PLEASE try HARD to understand (I want our friendship to live on forever, not end because the loss of respect for each other.) We can write to each other if you would like to – (I would still like to be friends)!

I’ll never forget you,

Miss Breuney Shoe.


Letter 7.16.70

July 16, ’70

Dear Lance:

I’m getting pretty classy with what I’m writing on huh? I was kind of shocked tonight [sic] to hear you say you’re leaving. [for NYC] In fact, I was disappointed because I had some things planned for when I got feeling better. But, if there’s one thing I should have learned from the accident, that’s not to plan ahead.

I’ll probably be in Canada when you get back so I’ll say what I’m going to say now. I hope that you understand how much I appreciated all that you’ve done for me since the accident. All the cheering up you’ve done is priceless and can’t be described or measured in any terms except *friendship*, I guess.

I want you to realize that just having someone to talk to every night for 8 weeks has helped me to prevent going absolutely crazy. I only hope that I’ve been as good a friend to you as you have been to me. I also hope that sometime in the future, before the both of us end up frail old married men with 27 kids apiece, in our late twenties that sometime we’ll have as good a time as we did FRI. NIGHT / MAY 22nd before 11:10 pm!!!

Your friend always,

R.D. Allan – if you don’t keep in contact, I’m hiring detectives to find you!


LETTER 7.18.70

after 5 days return to: R.D.Allan, RFD#1, Newmarket, N.H. 03857

To: Lance Z. Bdo*r*gard., Camp Sluck, Sluck Haven, N.H.


Ode to Corn-Fuck:

No expert he on freeway speeds

Sober or with cider.

In the graveyard now his headstone reads.

“He crossed the Great Divider.”

~ C.E. Kiser.

Dear Lance,

Well, how’s King Stud tonight? How ya doing little fella. Ha, ha. I’m in a good mood tonight for a change, despite the terrible heat which has absolutely created hell with my legs.  Also despite the fact that I have come to the realization that my temporary baldness was not temporary and I am honestly going bald. (NO KIDDING!). The situation has spurned me to start writing a novel called, *Short, Fat, Bald and Sixteen*.  I’ll send you a copy. I did kind of want to see seventeen before I went completely bald.  Ask Irene if she likes short, fat, bald and sexteen-year-olds. Ask her how many she’s ever tried.

(note to readers – some mail was not received in order due to the post office fucking up and not delivering mail on time – go figure)

Speaking of Irene I’ve got to tell you about the dream I had last night. It was so beautiful. It has been lingering in my mind all day.  It all started out when I was sent to Dover to buy underwear.  None of my underwear from the accident fit, so in this dream I went over to MORTONS in Dover.  Now usually there are a bunch of faggy [sic] guys standing around waiting to wait on you. But, this day there was a girl of my dreams standing there waiting to wait on me. She was about 5′ 1 & a half, 34-29-34, brunette, and she had such beautiful ding-dongs, you’ve never seen before. Well, I tell you, I wouldn’t have minded *weighting* on her!  Seeing she was the sales girl, she asked me what I wanted. Hesitating I said, jockey shorts. She said, “Very good sir.” Then I said, “Well I may be, but that you’ll have to find out for yourself.” Next this dream lady is taking measurements for my size.  Then she asks, “Do you want Fruit of the Loom?” So I said, “No thanks I’m sick of those faggy [sic] salesmen, I’ll stick with you.”  So as I was paying for them she said, “If you don’t want to purchase all these right now, we have a Lay-a-way Plan.” So I, of course, said, “I have a few lay-a-way plans of my own.”

After purchasing my underwear and trying to MAKE AN ACQUAINTANCE, I proceeded to Dunkin’ Donuts to get some refreshments to quench my appetite, (well at least to quench my appetite for food.)  What should happen when I get to the counter but this girl I was just talking to was waiting on tables. “Didn’t you just sell me some underwear?” I asked. “I beg your pardon squirt,” she said. Well, I knew this wasn’t the same girl because the first one was delighted with my flirtations. In fact she couldn’t keep her eyes off my flirtations. Have you ever had a girl stare at your flirtations? If you’re not careful it could be embarrassing. Well, I knew they weren’t the same girls, but they could have been twins. “What kinna doughnut ya want?” she said with malice to-ward none. “Honey dip”, I said. That’s when she slapped me. I decided to leave.

I had some shopping to do for my movie camera, so I went to Rivers camera shop.  Who should be there but the same girl. I then fully realized this was a dream, and in a dream you can do anything, say anything, so I went up to her. “I’d like some Vivitar, f/8, color, super 8 movie film.” I said. “Oh, you make movies?” she said. “No”, I said. “I’m in here buying film for a movie camera because I like to jerk off in the tin foil that comes wrapped around the film.”  Realizing I was being impolite I said I was terribly tired, and that I did make movies. “In fact,” I said, “I have a movie company, Talent Limited.” “Oh I’ll bet your talents aren’t all limited”, she said, whereas she promptly dragged me into the back room and we exposed a little film together. All the time humming…:

*Coming Thru the Rye*

If a body meet a body,

Comin’ thru the rye.

If a body kiss a body,

Need a body cry.

Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,

Nane, they say, ha’e I;

Yet a ‘the lads they smile at me

When comin’ thru the rye.

~ so ended my dream and my letter.

Yours truly

R.D. Allan



to be continued.

[7th draft – 26 revisions…]




[Author’s note:]

Robert D. Allan lived in New Hampshire during his early school years.  His father was a postal worker. (probably why letters were not mailed in sequence)  His sister was beautiful, adorable and cute. His brother was cool and smoked dope, before all of us in the 60s. And, his mother was his mother – another swell girl.

Bob went on to TV and Radio School in the Boston area and then on to Hollywood California, pursuing his dream of fame and fortune.  He became a prolific comedy writer in the late 70s to mid-eighties and wrote for shows like: The Gong Show, The $1.98 Beauty Show, [one of my favorites], Hollywood Squares, possibly the Dating Game, the Match Game, the Newlywed Game and many others of Chuck Barris’ ilk.  Unfortunately, Robert died from AIDS in 1986 and is no longer writing. But, running with ‘Ziggy’ – his hapless 6 inch tongued dog, dragging on the happy hunting ground. ~d. Øle Ø.




NOTHING shall be construed to have the appearance of truth or the truth is absolute, which is totally defensible in the Rhetorical tradition, or, the views and opinions expressed in these writings are strictly those of the authors, fictitious, unusual or equivocal (unless otherwise noted) – or whereas, countered general or individual opinions or viewed general opinions made by the public, are generally acceptable or countered, by individual or general opinions of the masses or individuals, by their own final justifiable opinions, if they are true and justified …generally.

~ Øle Ø. –

New Hampshire – 1970-72

New York – Hudson Valley – 2012-13

Massachusetts. 9/27/2014-16

New Hampshire 01.07.2019

Maine – 09.17.2021

© d. Øle Ødegaard

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