Dear Editor,

I'm sick and tired of all the sensationalism and violence in the media these days! I can't even turn on the television any more without getting a faceful.

Your magazine is a welcome relief, even if my copy does have the staples removed before delivery. Keep it up.

Some Crummy Jail

Dear Editor,

Well, we can't turn on the televion at all, thanks to you-know-who. And now that you've printed these two letters, we can't even read your stupid magazine anymore, either.

The O.J. Jury
Some Crummy Motel

Dear Hoyt:

I thought I should write to let you know that I'm submitting nothing for Voo Doo this time. I did really get started on something, but it just wasn't right. Here's an excerpt:

``... The writer stared at the page. The despair that had dogged him for the last month welled up, stronger yet, and overtook him. Weeping with frustration, he fumbled for the stack of No. 5 pencils that he had spent the day sharpening. So that he would see no more Evil, he stabbed a pencil though his left eyeball, then right, leaving them protruding by a fist's width. So that he might hear no more Evil, he stuck a pencil far into each ear. He thought he smelled a bit o' Evil, so he pushed the next two up into his nose, making the final pushes with his thumbs, up into his brain's frontal lobes. Was that some Evil stirring there in his loins? ...''
Well, you get the idea. See what I mean? That's no funnier than the cartoons we usually have. What the hell's wrong with me?

I used to just sit down at the teletype and pure poetry (in prose form, of course) would shoot from my mind. My fingers would dance along the keyboard, and my pencils, hoping for a power failure, would leap about my desk. Hilarious jokes would line up in my head like a bunch of ten-year-olds waiting to be sodomized by Michael Jackson. But no more.

Some people say that winter's short daylight period takes its toll and leaves melancholy behind it. Others suggest that I'm feeling bad because my fiancee left me. The doctors say that a persistent capillary headache can be a cause or a symptom of depression. How can I even have a capillary headache? I've got enough coffee, aspirin, and alcohol in my system to dilate my capillaries to the size of Hillary's ass.

I can't even say I'm a ``tortured artist,'' and ``tortured engineer'' doesn't have much of a ring to it.

I'll just be here in bed until the days get longer. Give me a ring then.

John Dzenitis

P.S. Don't feel obligated to put a quip after each letter unless the quip is funny.

John- The point is not to be funny. It's to fill up these damn one and a half pages.

Dear Phos,

``Eat me!'' cried Chiquita.

Tom forcefully seized her and stroked her long, beautiful body, caressing each curve lovingly. He wanted her, and, saying nothing, began to satisfy his hunger. He grasped her top and pulled it down until all of it was down at her feet and all her smooth creaminess was revealed. Inch by inch he slid it into his mouth and savoured the touch and taste of her on his lips. He started slow and got faster and faster, moving up and down, until at last, it was done. He swallowed it, wiped his lips with a napkin, and walked away contented. Chiquita had been consumed by Tom's passion.

recalling a fantasy I've had while paying my
65 cents for a banana at Lobdell

Dear Phos:

Hey! There are some really hot women in the MIT Glassblowing Shop!


Thanks T.K. We were trying to make people think that we weren't misogynist pigs who sit around the Voo Doo office all day belching and making Hillary Clinton jokes while we fling french fries up at the ceiling to see how much ketchup it takes to make 'em stick.

Dear Phos,

Now that I'm looking for jobs with real companies, I wish I had not made my email address ``fuckhead@mit.edu.''


At least it's accurate. P.S. Have you tried Washington, DC? These days, they seem to be looking for people of your caliber.