The Zoo Jersey Letters

11/26/09

To whom it may concern--

I'd like to begin by informing you that I have been a member of the D----- Zoo for more than a decade. I have supported this institution through good (the arrival of the baby giraffes) and bad (gorilla attacks of 94-5), financially and otherwise. I have donated graciously throughout this span, and refrained from causing a fuss when my son Raymond was bitten by a goat at your petting zoo. But on my last visit (25 November, 2009), I was shocked to learn of your new "Jersey Shore" exhibit. Initially, I was confounded that a new exhibit could be erected without my knowledge. Such additions usually come to ample pomp and circumstance, and aside from that, I tend to keep my ear to the ground, so to speak, on such matters. At first glance, I understood why you would keep the news of this under tight wraps. That you are not under siege from human interest groups already is beyond me. The exhibit, which is touted as "Seaside Heights, Texas" is, alone, enough to have your director arrested for crimes against the state, as well as crimes against humanity. The seven garishly-dressed New Jerseyans (or imitation Jerseyans) were kept in a large enclosure made to look like a sort of low-rent nightclub--all except for the workout area, hair-gelling station, and walk-in closet, which seemed to be sponsored by Ed Hardy. These aren't conditions fit for any human being.

Please consider freeing the Jerseyans, and razing their insulting enclosure.

Worriedly,

Rebecca Poonstone




12/7/09


Ms. Poonstone,

While we here at the D----- Zoo appreciate your consistent support, and have taken your concerns into consideration, we must disagree with your assertion that the "Jersey Shore" exhibit is in any way offensive, or insulting. We may assure you that each of the seven Jerseyans currently staying with us are quite content with their current situation. Following is a list of amenities given the Jerseyans, of which you may not have been previously aware:

• Complimentary Italian food delivered fresh daily from Johnny Carino's.


• Complimentary Ed Hardy shirts (Yes, we have a sponsorship deal with the company).


• State of the art workout equipment, for the bros.


• Bose surround sound, and a prodigious collection of music from DJ Skribble, Enigma, and other "House" artists.


• 48 mirrors


• A 52-gallon drum of Paul Mitchell hair gel


• Garlic flavored condoms, courtesy of Trojan and Little Caesar's


• In-house barber, complete with forced black dialect

So, Ms. Poonstone, as you might guess from a quick gander at this list, the kids are quite happy indeed. Again, we appreciate your full support, and look forward to seeing you very soon.

Pacifyingly,

Dr. Robert Peckerton

P.S. I may also assure you that ours are authentic Jerseyans, plucked directly from Seaside Heights.

12/15/09

Dr. Peckerton--

Your insistence that these seven young people (read: human beings!) locked in an enclosure are somehow happy is beyond insulting, and your explanation for their happiness is both unimaginably materialistic and utterly racist. To insinuate that all Italian-Americans like tight-fitting Ed Hardy shirts and excessive amounts of hair gel roughly equates to saying that "Asian-Americans are bad drivers" or "White people are terrible dancers;" these are all stereotypes perpetuated by ignorant, closed-minded buffoons like you, Dr. Peckerton, and they have no place in our post-racial society.

I must insist that you close the exhibit in question at once. Otherwise, I will be forced to halt all membership payments, and never return to your institution. I do not want this; please trust me when I say that you don't either.

Begrudgingly,

Rebecca Poonstone

12/24/09

Ms. Poonstone,

I apologize for the lateness of my reply. With the success of the "Jersey Shore" exhibit, though, and the holiday rush, it seems that I can hardly find a spare moment for spoil-sports such as yourself. First of all, we never insinuated that all Italian-Americans like tight-fitting Ed hardy shirts--just Italian-Americans from Seaside Heights, and even then, there are exceptions to this rule. Let me draw a comparison for you.

The white tiger is a rarity. We currently do not have any with us; just normal, run-of-the-mill bengals, orange in color with black stripes. Now, are we insinuating that all tigers are orange with black stripes? Of course not. We are only insinuating that we have tigers, and most tigers are orange with black stripes; just as we have residents of Seaside Heights in tight-fitting Ed Hardy shirts. That is, we know there are exceptions to the rule--we just haven't come across any quite yet.

The tiger situation might have gotten ugly too, if there were clammy busy-bodies like yourself in the animal kingdom. Thankfully though, there are not.

Happy holidays,

Dr. Robert Peckerton

P.S. Next Friday, the young women in the exhibit will be participating in a cannoli-sucking contest. Fun for the whole family!

P.S.S. My mother was killed by an Asian-American driver going the wrong way down the highway. Draw whatever you may from that tidbit.

12/28/09

Dr. Peckerton--

It has become clear to me that you will not listen to reason. Because of this, I have spent the past couple of days alerting human interest groups across the continental United States to this atrocity. I will not be attending the "cannoli-sucking contest" which is at once sexist, racist and degrading, or, for that matter, any other exhibit in your offensive, two-bit zoo.

Judging by your letters, you are a coarse chauvinist of a man, and I expect nothing less than patronizing double-talk in your response, should I receive one. Frankly, at this point, I don't care. The aforementioned human interest groups will be knocking at your door soon. If I find their actions in any way insufficient or delayed, I will be making my final trip to your zoo, to liberate the enslaved young men and women and return them to Seaside Heights; after which I will hire a lawyer, and attempt to have you jailed for your numerous crimes against society.

For your own sake, hire a lawyer and a bodyguard.

Furiously yours,

Rebecca Poonstone

1/3/10

Ms. Poonstone,

I feel obligated to inform you that your threats come across (much like your husband, if by some miracle you have one) as quite impotent. Let's assume you make it past my armed night watchmen. Let's also assume you have the necessary information to open the enclosure in which the kids reside. Beyond that, let's assume you have a perfect escape route, a cunning manner of escaping my, ahem, two-bit zoo, in the company of seven flamboyantly-dressed Jerseyans.

Even if you had taken all necessary measures to pull off, what seems to me, the impossible, what exactly makes you think the kids would want to leave? They have everything they could possibly want or need in life and this includes the constant attention that few arenas could provide. My zoo, it's safe to say, is one of them.

Since we're catching up, I'm excited to tell you that D-Pow and "The Incident" are pregnant (!), meaning "Seaside Heights, Texas" will be getting a new arrival around November of this year. You must admit, Ms. Poonstone, this is exciting stuff!

In any case, my New Year's resolution was to cease taking hate-mail from wound-up PTA members with sticks up their asses--such as yourself. So, I'm afraid our correspondence has come to an end.

You know, I hear the aquarium has been employing illegal immigrants for astoundingly low wages. Please direct your future bitching there.

Washing my hands completely,

Dr. Robert Peckerton

1/7/10

Dr. Peckerton--

Considering the tone of your last letter, I can't be sure if you'll ever read this. I sure hope you do. Normally, I wouldn't care one way or the other. But this letter is special, because it is coated with anthrax spores. Soon, you will feel as though you're coming down with a cold. Enjoy it, because it will be your last. These cold- and flu-like symptoms are just a precursor to full respiratory collapse. Until then, I'll be scanning the obits, looking for a familiar name.

For human rights everywhere,

Rebecca Poonstone

Who Is Reginald Pennyfarthing?

Over the past few years, several Americans have approached me, either at my flat or via telephone, to ask if I would help this or that historical society with this or that study. As a man of distinction hardly imaginable for the average American, I always declined--politely of course, and in high style. However, as my gambling debts rose and the number of suitors for my very special, very British gift for refined cultural studies fell, I was faced with an unnerving decision: to remain in Bassetlaw, waiting for ne'er-do-wells to break my thumbs and possibly, if one particularly perturbed bookies held true to his word, sodomize me with a cricket bat; or leave my beloved England for Texas, to work on a rarely-read blog for meagre pay and my thumbs (and virgin bum) in tact.


Reluctantly, I chose Texas.


In my travels, I have seen the basest of humanity, from the barbarous natives of the Australian outback to the overpriced slags in Amsterdam, and I'm not sure either could be outdone by my colleague Mr Crisp, in either boorishness or lack of culture. Operating under the millstone of paltry wages, I have taken up quarters with Crisp, an experience that, if nothing else, has proven that there is ample practical support for every negative American stereotype out there. If not swilling beer or watching Encino Man on DVD (without doubt the worst film I have ever seen), Crisp can be found engaged in the very American practice of scratching oneself while staring blankly at the ceiling. What he lacks in savoir-faire, he makes up for in a mouth fouler than most cesspools I've come across while travelling abroad. In this vein, I'd like to halt the introduction for a moment, in lieu of a plea: if you've any mercy in your heart, you will read this wretched blog if only long enough to liberate me from this abject shabbiness.


I've noticed since my arrival the attention of more than a few curious eyes, drawn, undoubtedly, by my rarely matched sense of style, and my persistent yet understated love for all things elegant. This, again, is understandable. Since birth, I have prescribed to the lost art of dandyism, a lifestyle marked by garish fashion, flamboyant gait, and an unflappable facade of leisureliness. At the age of four I was scolded by my father, a Prometheus Pennyfarthing, Esq., for joining in a neighbourhood football match (that's "soccer," for you animals). This was a rare misstep and ever since, I have refrained from engaging in such "manly" trifles as football, hunting, and heterosexual copulation, choosing instead to devote my time to the arts, fashion, and cultivating an unmistakable air of superiority. In the spirit of familiarity, here is a short list of things I rather fancy:

• Peacock feathers, to be worn in one's hat or front pocket



• High stockings



• Brandy



• Belittling the natives



• Tea



• Moustaches, and moustache accessories (wax, combs and the like)



• Dignified travel

Here if the reader finds himself asking, "What is dignified travel?," he may cease at once, excuse himself from the screen and go watch a Friends rerun on cable, something a bit less demanding of his undoubtedly sloping brow. Travel, by definition, can be done by anyone. Gyppos, by definition, are travellers, and if I fancied myself as having a thing in common with those mealy-mouthed savages, I would summarily turn to what the Japanese call hara-kiri. The dignified traveller is almost always an Englishman, one who upholds a sense of leisurely elegance throughout his oft-trying journeys abroad. This may mean using the natives as human furniture; it may mean shooting an endangered species and chuckling about it over tea; it almost always means deriding local customs in a journal--always leather-bound, and always carried in the breast pocket.

This brings us back to my association with the woefully undignified Mr Crisp. Commissioned by Crisp, and in a leather-bound journal kept in the front breast pocket, I took to a study of the North Texas suburb of Farmers Branch. In the coming weeks, I will be delivering a concise history of the city, as well as a sort of traveler's log, detailing the good and the bad of my experiences; it will invariably lean toward the latter. Additionally, I will review movies, critique Seppo culture and take questions from the public in an attempt to educate the reader on all matter of dandyism. In hopes of avoiding banality, I'll answer in advance some of your more inevitable, and pressing questions:

1. Am I a Dandy? No, you are not.





2. How might I become a Dandy? Impossible, I'm afraid. Dandies are born, not made.





3. Can I take you out to dinner? Perhaps, (a) if you can afford it, and (b) if you are sufficiently attractive and stylish--doubtful in both cases.

To say I will look forward to acquainting myself with your social mores, fielding your questions and eating your food would be, beyond a betrayal of my gallant ways, a boldface lie. However, the fates have intervened--for reasons beyond my comprehension--to bring us together, and I will approach this latest and most trying portion of my life, as any true dandy, with an easy smile on my face.

Until then, may your stockings stay high, your locks hang low, and may your moustache curl delightfully at each end.

Cheerio,

Reginald T. Pennyfarthing