  IN ZE GOOD OLD SUMMERTIME Dear purveyors of freedom: I am writing this from an Apple Store in the urlLink Tlaquepaque Arts and Crafts Village in Sedona, Arizona. I barely escaped the truck stop when I was ambushed by the pussy posse. I turned around just as the hind quarters of a tortoise shell landed in my face. I would have been blinded if it were not for my cheap, imitation J-Lo sunglasses. It's not easy subduing ninja kitties, but luckily I was able to wield saltwater taffy like a whip, a little skill I picked up from dating an American Airlines flight attendant with an Indiana Jones fetish. "Oh Professor Jones, open up my ancient tomb. " By the time I was through with them, the only thing you could see was their little tails whipping back and forth from under a Ms. Pac-Man machine. I trust no one now. In order to blend in with the locals, I have begun wearing a black beret, a t-shirt with black horizontal stripes and painted a thin black moustache on my upper lip. I speak in a fake French accent and spy on suspicious characters by pretending to paint on my easel. The fact that I do not have a canvas seems unimportant to others. I know Ya Ya's hidden lair is somewhere in the iron mountain.
I suspect her testicular ray canon is in there, waiting to steal the testicles of men all over ze planet, replacing them with little wooden decoys. I must have proof to be sure, dear readers, therefore, tomorrow I head down into the Sunshine Valley Nudist Colony to see if I can knock on wood. Stay tuned. I feel Mr. Lovan Tomas is near; something smells fishy. Resistantly Yours, Jef 
