The funniest magazine I ever read was the National Lampoon, the All-American version of the satirical magazine of Harvard University. The funniest part every month was the correspondence pages, featuring letters, not to, but from the editors, in which their imaginations ran riot. They would hang on-the-edge comedy on the slenderest of premises you would only catch upon reading the supposed sender, such as the letter that read, Sirs, Funny magazine, funny magazine/ Magazine, magazine/ Funny, funny/ Funny pictures, funny pictures/ Pictures, pictures/ Funny-funny. Signed: A Bunch of Hare Krishnas/ Getting in Your Way at the Airport.
Sadly, the National Lampoon failed. In an age in which any half-dozen labels you can combine–white, homophobic, misogynist, vodka-swilling, international law-breaking, warmongering –has either its own cable channel or country president, there wasn't room for a monthly satirical rag. So, though I'm grateful for the Private Eyes and Onions that remain, occasionally, sometimes purely as homage to the National Lampoon, but more usually when Trinidad throws up more horror or idiocy than I can bear, I like to lighten the load of my Trinidadian consciousness with a few letters from myself; it's as much for my mental health as your amusement and I sincerely hope only one of us will really crack up.
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