Also known as "The great Civil War booty call" when it was performed at the Killing My Lobster "Sex Battle" show. More recently published in the excellent The Tusk.

May 10th, 1863

To My Beloved Nathaniel,

I yearn for the day we win this damned war against the Union and you are returned home to me. Each day I miss you more than I thought possible. I fear that my poor heart will fairly explode from the longing I feel.

I realize you are quite busy protecting the Confederacy, but I received your most recent letter and was surprised by its brevity. It read simply, “Yo. You up?”

I asked daddy if it might be some sort of secret code, in case the Union intercepts the mail. He just said, “Oh, it’s code, all right” and took to cleaning his gun.

I for one am pleased to tell you that yes, I am “up,” though we often turn in early as we are conserving lamp oil for the war. I wait eagerly for your next letter.

All my love,

Constance

September 22nd, 1863:

My Desperately Adored Nathaniel,

The days we remain apart drag ever on, and the nights even more so. I did receive your last, extremely terse communique, in which you wrote, “Send a pic.”

I apologize for my tardiness in complying, but the only portrait artist daddy could find was wounded in Antietam and had to re-learn painting with his remaining hand. I hope the cherrywood frame is sturdy enough to bear the travel by horse.

I mentioned to daddy that I might just ask you to send me a “pic” in return, and he immediately took to target practice on our back forty.

All my affection,

Constance

January 12th, 1864

My Dearest Nathaniel,

When your delivery came, I nearly fainted: A photograph! An actual battlefield daguerreotype from the man I love!

At least, that’s what daddy says it was. He insisted on looking at it first, whereupon his face turned white and he refused to show it to me. He assured me that such a scientifically accurate rendition of you might be too much for my young heart.

Daddy even offered to return the photo to you himself. Please don’t worry for his safety, darling, for he took both hunting rifles, and that large knife he uses to castrate the mules.

I do hope I’ll see a photograph one day. Isn’t modern technology exciting?

My deepest love, your soon-bride-to-be,

Constance

I've only just recovered from St. Patrick's Day, which is why it's taken so long for me to post this piece I wrote for The Tusk that dropped around that time. The ultimate St. Pat's bar crawl, as told by a young lady who is the worst.

The Legend of Saint Patrick’s Day Bar Crawl

By Kaitlyn Tiffany Weston

As told to Ken Grobe

Time: 5:23 PM

Bar: Chachlagen O’Lichniches

Everyone knows the value of a holiday is measured by its bar crawl. Halloween is way too cold to go from bar to bar when you’re dressed as sexy Incredible Hulk. Which means the best holiday is St. Patrick’s Day. That’s why every March 17, I take my two best bitches, plus Jared, who’s bi so he’s like half bitch, and we have to hit EVERY. SINGLE. IRISH. BAR on Horton Street between 21st and 23rd. Everyone gets completely schnackered and guys hit on us and fights break out and police horses get stabbed and it’s super fun.

This year we’re starting at Chachlagen O’Lichliches, which might actually be a Jewish deli but they serve green beer so whatever.

Time: 7:04 PM

Bar: The Hog and Goiter

So we’re barely six drinks in at the Goiter and Summer is like, “Kaitlyn” and I’m like “What?” and Summer’s like “SHE’s here” And then I’m like “Who’s here?” and then I hear the wailing. You know how you have that friend you see just once a year because that’s all you can stand them? For us, that’s the Banshee.

The Banshee is a total hoverer who stands near a bunch of people she doesn’t really know and waits for a break in the conversation so she can start moaning about how she drowned in a moor 600 years ago. We’re always like “Bitch, shut up and drink!” But she just drones on and on about the moss in her lungs and blah blah SUCH a drama queen. It just gets so boring that we take her to karaoke and ditch her as soon as she starts singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Also, why is she always damp? It’s called a hair dryer, Banshee. Google it.

Time: 9:47 PM

Bar: The Pregnant Rose

I’m not gonna lie; I’m super into short guys. So when I came out of my blackout to find myself making out with one, I was NOT surprised. First of all, FYI, derby hats are the new fedoras. Second, he had one of those U-shaped beards with no mustache, which–newsflash–is the new sideburns. And then? When he jumped off his stool to fix my shoe? I wanted to bang the green off his bow tie. So I said “Let’s go back to your place” and suddenly he goes super aggro. He calls me names and he’s all, “Me gold! You’re after me gold!” and I’m like “I don’t need your stupid gold. Do you know who my dad is?” Then he tries to bite me, so Lachlan the bouncer hauls him outside.

Later that night we spotted Lachlan but he had donkey ears and we were like, “It’s not Halloween, Lachlan.” Some people live for attention.

Time: 12:02 AM

Bar: Declan McTesticoc’s

I am generally a 100% chill person, even when I’m completely slizzrd, but it was really not cool when the snakes showed up. I mean, we’re leaving the Pregnant Rose, trying to hide the bottles of Grey Goose we stole from the back, when Ashley’s all like “Ow” and I’m like “What” and she’s like “I think a snake bit me” and I’m like “You’re such a liar, Ashley” and then she dies in the street.

That’s when I notice like thousands of actual snakes slithering down Horton Street and I scream SUPER loud. I grab Summer and Jared and pull them into McTesticoc’s and lock the door and we jump on the bar and yell “THERE ARE SNAKES OUTSIDE!” But no one could hear us over the Mumford and Sons.

Then Jared pokes my boob and says, “There’s a guy out there.” and I’m like “So what?” and he’s like “LOOK” and I look and holy shit: There’s an old man with a long beard in the middle of Horton street, just like wading into the snakes.

And Jared’s like, “isn’t that the guy who hit on you at O’Hurliflynn’s?”

And I’m like, “Oh my god.” He still had the green stain on his robe from where I threw my beer at him. Now he’s like knee-deep in snakes and he holds up this stick with a cross on top.

The guy Summer is making out with looks up and points at the window and shouts, “Hey! That dude is glowing!”

And he totally was! And his glow makes the snakes all hiss really loud and retreat. He was like some sort of snake herder or something, which I’ll bet pays TONS if you’ve got the right client. He forces all of them down the sewer, where I’m sure they will never bother us again. Everyone in the bar cheers. I was so relieved I forced Jared to make out with me. I have serious upper body strength.

Three drinks or five minutes later I say to Summer, “THAT. WAS. INSANE. Have you EVER heard of someone driving snakes away like that?” And she says, “well isn’t that what St. Patrick did?” And I’m like “Who?” And she pushes me off the bar.

And that’s when it hit me: Next year for St. Pat’s I’m wearing my sexy Incredible Hulk costume! Now THAT will be epic.

Ken Grobe doesn’t have a serious bone in his body, an unnerving result of surgery after a tragic banana-peel accident. He’s penned short stories for Penguin books, sketches and short films for San Francisco’s Killing My Lobster, and an obscene amount of ad copy for rent. He’s performed at CBGB, Joe’s Pub, and on THE NEW GONG SHOW. Don’t ask.