Robert Robus pens an epistle

Ah! Why, hello, faithful readers! Welcome to another day in the life of I, Robert Robus! Today finds me, fountain-pen in hand, inking a few lines to my mother, Geraldine. So far I have:

Dear Mother,

You, Geraldine Robus, are enshrined in the deepest beatitude: for many years ago you had the great fortune to bear I, Robert Robus! I am great; and, as such, the cachet of my greatness attaches itself profusely to those with whom I associate. When people find out, for example, that Tartar Smith knew I, Robert Robus, in high school (and, further, that he is still my most treasured companion), the checkbooks--and paper on which to inscribe autographs--quickly come out. Yes, the greatness of I, Robert Robus, is supreme; and it is precisely owing to that greatness that you are an extremely fortunate and rectitudinous woman.

Affectionately,

Robert

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And, while at this juncture I am debating interiorally whether to ajoute a postscriptum to said epistle, I currently believe that I shall not: for I, Robert Robus, hold considerable moral objections to postscripta. And now I shall fold said epistle, and insert it into one of those curious devices compounded of paper and foul-tasting adhesive (which, in the vernacular argot of our time, are commonly held to be "envelopes"); and, voilà! The epistle is ready to send.

Ah, but wait! It is imperative that I ajoute the proper postage to the exterior of the envelope before placing it in the mail! And, to that end, I have here a thirty-nine-cent stamp. The last time I sent a letter, Napoleon was in diapers; but my advisors inform me that thirty-nine cents--no more, no less--shall now suffice as postage. And now I shall lick the stamp, and. . .HELP! HELP! Said stamp has adhered itself to my tongue! Said stamp has adhered itself to my tongue! I can't get it off, folks--I can't get it off! Call my publicist, call a poison control center, bring in the national guard! This infernal scrap of postage has adhered itself to my tongue, and the two newly-bonded entities shall never again be sundered! All is lost, dear readers, all is lost!

I shall now call the hospital with the aim of scheduling an appointment for the surgical removal of said morsel of postage from the tongue of I, Robert Robus. And, with that in mind, dear readers, I must now sign off. I shall convey to you next time the precise nature of the medical advice I shall have received by that juncture. Until next time, dear readers!