Author’s note: Each of these pieces has previously appeared on my blog, printed with Blunner Huzka’s permission. I am re-publishing them as a group because I would like feedback from my readers on Blunner Huzka and his work. Blunner is an aging and impoverished bachelor. He lacks both an adequate income and a Significant Other. However, it does not seem to me that he lacks talent. What do my readers think of his writing?

Letter from a Middle-aged Pizza Cook to his Mother
By Blunner Huzka

Dear Mother,
As my calendar doesn’t label holidays I didn’t realize Mother’s Day was approaching until Mother’s Day was already here. Thus I apologize that this little card is doodling into your mailbox a little tardy but a big “Happy Mother’s Day!” nonetheless.

Mom – in the future, please seek the Lord’s guidance when addressing me any more of your epistolary efforts. You know, in all that marvelous outpouring of heart-warming motherly affection I’ve received through the years – kept in that bulging letter file I’ve labeled “The Piss n’Vinegar Papers” – in not one of them, I say, have I ever detected the slightest infilling of the Holy Ghost . . . instead, many of those letters I’ve had to burn – they reek so much of hellfire! Even the mailman has started to complain about the sulphurous stench from your letters stinking up the whole mailbag! But I think what bothers me most is when that terrible day does arrive that you go to your Great Reward – and mother, I do hope your rewards are great – it’s not like I can whip out any of those suckers and wax nostalgic about good ol’ mom. I mean, it’s a little hard to get misty-eyed over “30 years old and leeching off your poor parents you knuckle-brained good-for-nothing icky-haired parasite!” but maybe if I eat a raw onion while reading them I can try.

I am, however, truly sorry that my poverty and status in life has created such an embarrassment for you. While I know you’ve pretty well written me off – I don’t blame you either – I’m still highly optimistic about my future, so maybe I really am a fool. But I do wish God could have blessed you with a son you could brag about instead of one you have to be ashamed of. What can I say? Send money. Maybe if I got on welfare you could at least tell all your church friends that I “get paid by the government – he’s in social services.”
Take Care, God Bless, Be Happy
Blunner
Imagined Letter of a Family Man
By
Blunner Huzka

Robert,

Well, hey, how’s it going? Merry Christmas and all that . . . man, been staring at this blank page for awhile. Realize why I hate to write letters – nothing to talk about. Wish I was like other 42-year-old men with a wife and son and daughter – then you always have something to say.

Yup. For Christmas I finally broke down and bought my wife what she always wanted – breast augmentation surgery. We made a deal – I’d pay for it if I got to pick the size. I will always cherish that expression on her face when she gazed down where her pair of 36-C’s used to be and saw those 96 quadruple-D honkers. Should have known it would go to her head, though. Now she really thinks she’s hot shit. Too good to do anything. Don’t cook dinner, don’t do housework, don’t do nothing except lay there on that carpet 24-7 with her butt in the air. Tries to tell me she thinks her back is broke. Now I know that’s bullshit. Ain’t no way she could have the energy to scream that loud when I buttf— her if her back was really broke.

My son Jason turned 17 last week. Bought him a motorcycle for his birthday. Dumb crankhead rammed it into a street lamp when he mistook an ambulance siren for the police. Wasn’t hurt too bad except for losing both legs. We’ve been arguing a lot since he got back from the hospital. Insists I should get him fitted for artificial limbs. I keep trying to tell him that not only do those Long John Silver peg legs look a helluva lot cooler, but they’re cheaper, too. I tried to get him to watch Treasure Island with me but he smashed the video against the wall. See what that crank does? Even when I unscrewed a couple of chair legs and told him to just “try them on, walk around the room, see how they feel,” he burst into tears and started bawling I didn’t love him. I tried to tell him that no man would ruin a perfectly decent chair for someone he didn’t love, but you can’t reason with that kid.

Hopefully, he’ll cheer up when he sees what I’m getting him for Christmas. A little red wagon. Then his friends can have something to haul him around in. Of course, this is just until he gets his wheelchair. But I read on the Internet that the choice of a wheelchair is critical, and I’d hate to seem like an irresponsible parent by rushing into something like that.

Well, it happened. You remember my beautiful and athletic 14-year-old daughter Karen? Yesterday she came up and told me she was pregnant. Five months along, she says, and here I thought she was just sneaking some beer in on me. Naturally, I tried to be as understanding as I could, told her, “Well, hell, at least I hope it’s mine” (that way I could be called “Dad” again instead of that old-ass sounding “Grandpa”) but she didn’t think it was. Thought it belonged to some crack dealer, but she couldn’t remember which one.

Tragically, she lost the child that very same night after practicing her pole vaults in the backyard. Of course, since a fetus isn’t considered a human being I couldn’t see paying for some big-ass funeral. Unfortunately, I found you shouldn’t try flushing a five-monther down the john. The plumber is in there now with a plunger. I sure hope he mistakes it for a t—. I told him I thought it was a record-breaker, so maybe he’ll bite.

Well, that’s about it. Got a nice Christmas bonus down at “Bodybags ‘r Us.” I’ve recently been promoted to Head of Sales at our new toe-tag division. Tomorrow gotta go see the county coroner and try to sell him on our new line of “stick-on” tags. Just peel them off and slap ‘em on the foot, “quicker, easier, and no busted strings to deal with.” Will also see if I can interest him in our new line of “teletubby” tags for kids.

Hope you and the little missus are well. Hope the weather’s good. Hope the script’s still rolling along. Hope the Holiday season isn’t tapping you out too bad. But above all else, I wish you another employee-of-the-month at Appleby’s. Gotta go now. Driving down to the Army Surplus Store to pick up those two used parachutes I ordered. Trying to make the wife a bra.

Merry Christmas and
Happy New Year
Blunner

Blunner Huzka wrote the following to his mother, who weighs about 250 pounds and is a senior citizen, after she recovered from a broken ankle.

Get Well, Mother
By
Blunner Huzka

Throw those crutches aside, sister! Tear off that cast! Now hop up and down, on one foot! Now the other! Hop! Hop! Ha! Ha! – Hallelujah! – Now run around the podium! Do the jitterbug! The Charleston! Moonwalk! Breakdance! Get on those parallel bars and strut your stuff!

Anyway, Mother, hope you are soon free from the horrors of the easy chair and the VCR so that you may return to that which always brought you such overwhelming bliss – washing dishes, cooking meals, hanging out the laundry, etc. Just remember nobody breaks their ankles in Heaven (I think) and there are no messes to clean up (? – Is this true? – an eternity without a lick of work? Hmmm). I love you, Mother,
God bless & protect you.
Blunner