SUMMER OF SCAT! | NAT’S LETTER

It’s mid-summer, baybee, which can only mean one thing! 

No, not the heat dome. 

No, not the wildfires.

No, not the continued bombing in the Middle East (jeeze, guys, I’m trying to stay positive this month…)

I’m talking, of course, about the “Song of the Summer!” You know: hot new hits to get our meat-sacks a-herking and a-jerking while we’re all out on our house boats - snappy tunes like “Surfing USA” by the Beach Boys, or “California Gurls” by Katy Perry, or who could forget “Summertime” by famous Chris-Rock-assaulter The Fresh Prince?

It’s a right of passage every summer! We get a new song that the radio stations - or, I guess, Spotify or whatever - run into the ground! In the future, whenever you hear this song, you’ll instantly be transported back to this glorious, golden moment in time - when everyone wore their bikinis and sipped unidentified beverages from red solo cups and the world wasn’t quite so mean.

So what do we get this year, you ask? What’s our Song of the Summer 2026? We’re so pleased that we have the privilege to announce:

“Constant, Lettuce-Induced Intestinal Distress,” by Cyclosporiasis!

Top of the charts, guys! I love how snappy the title is, but the thing I like most? The splashes. What a hook, right? Go into your local liquor store or Old Navy and you’re bound to hear it. Sure seems like everybody is listening to it or talking about it or dreading it.

Say what you will - maybe you don’t listen to Cyclosporiasis, or maybe you’re more a fan of their early works from before they went “commercial,” (I liked them more back in the early aughts when they were called The Runs)- but you must admit that “Constant, Lettuce-Induced Intestinal Distress” is a fitting soundtrack for this, our most golden of golden summers.

…

Unrelated note but, uh, I sure wish all those scientists hadn’t lost their jobs over at the FDA or whatever.

Alright, enough scat-talk. Let’s get into the newsletter!

Look: I enjoyed the Odyssey as much as the next movie goer but, as an amateur classicist, I couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Nolan missed out on a couple of key points - for instance, this oft-ignored episode from the famous poem…

FICTION: BACK BACON

As Circe busied herself with putting her lair back together, she made estimates in her head. About one in seven visiting parties had a hero as a leader. Of those, only one in three ever managed to best her. All things considered, not a bad hit rate.

Sure, Odysseus had convinced her to free his sailors. Circe had gotten her hopes up over a brand new passel of pigs, but such were the breaks for a goddess and a witch. Sometimes the Fates smiled upon you, and sometimes they spat.

It was a pity, too. Their transformation into swine - the actual act of it - had been particularly evocative, a masterstroke of Circe’s formidable magical powers. Such a shame to waste such technical brilliance on a gang of thugs that she was evidently fated to release in the first place.

She finished flipping her heavy dining table right side up when she heard a knock on her hovel door. Surely, no new crew of shipwrecked travelers could have alighted on her shores so soon after the others, or if they had they almost certainly would have swapped notes with Odysseus and his men before venturing up the craggy pathway to her home. Curious, Circe padded to the entrance and opened the door.

Before her stood two of the previously porcine sailors.

“Hi. Sorry. Forgive us,” said the one.

“We don’t mean to bother,” said the second.

“It’s fine,” sighed Circe. “What, did you forget something? Did your master send you up to collect some trophy?”

“No, nothing like that,” said the second. The breeze blew through the branches of an olive tree while Circe waited for them to get on with it. “Can we, uh, step inside?”

Circe rolled her eyes, for surely they meant some other form of either inconvenience or embarrassment for her, but she ushered them back in all the same.

“Well?” croaked Circe after they had closed the door.

“Could you turn us back into pigs?” asked the first.

Circe scowled. Never had she heard such a request before. Any time she’d ever been in the position of transforming a lost traveler, she’d heard only ‘no no please not…’ before their voices turned to barking or croaking or squealing or chirping.

“Hah?” replied Circe.

“We would like to be pigs again,” insisted the second. “Please.”

“You… want to be pigs?” asked Circe.

“I didn’t mind it a bit,” piped in the one, rubbing his hands together. “Consistent food? A fence to keep predators out? Plenty of mud for cooling yourself on a warm summer’s day?”

“I can’t go to another island,” insisted the second. “Every time we land on another island, some new fresh hell awaits us. Have you ever met a Laestrygonian? I hate to paint with a broad brush, but they are very uncharitable people.”

“They ate my lover,” noted the first.

“And my lover got eaten whole by a Cyclops,” said the second. “One big bite - so long Alpheos.”

Circe entertained the thought, but she had just made a bargain with a hero of the Trojan War and going back on that might look bad. “What about Odysseus? He’s not going to miss you?”

“Honestly, I don’t think he would. These past couple of trials, he’s sort of just churned right through us like we were nothing. Those Laestrygonian lunatics ripped a couple of boats apart with their bare hands and the boss didn’t bat an eye.”

The second shook his head. “I’m kind of done with the whole ‘heroes and gods’ game. Odysseus gets fame and glory. I get a leg chopped off or an arm eaten. To Hades with these people! I left my wife and my child and two other lovers at home so I could truck my sorry behind across the Aegean for these pompous jackasses and their little personal feuds, and now I can’t even get home without everything and everyone trying to kill me! How am I supposed to enjoy my plunder if I have to keep chucking it overboard in the middle of yet another Poseidean shitstorm? Much better to be a pig.”

“Yes,” agreed the first. “Much, much better. I don’t like being Mycenaean. I have trouble even pronouncing the word! Let me say ‘oink’ for the rest of my life and I’ll be a happy creature.”

Circe considered their request and their plight, and she might well have granted their wish except she received a second knock on her door, which again, against her own better judgement, she opened.

“Circe, I’m so sorry,” said Odysseus. “In all of the excitement of freeing my men, or perhaps because of all the melancholy from my various traumas, I completely forgot to have sex with you.”

“Oh! That was part of the bargain, wasn’t it?” replied Circe. “Well, best to it.”

“Entirely slipped my mind,” he muttered as he stepped into the hovel, pulling his tunic over his head. However, he stopped disrobing the moment he saw his two crew members. 

“Wait a minute! What are you guys doing here?” Odysseus’s lip began to tremble. “You’re not planning to abandon me? After all we’ve been through? You wouldn’t, would you?”

The first sailor shared a look with the second.

“Nnnnnnooooo,” they said in unison.

“Oh thank the gods,” said Odysseus. “I was about to feel really, really, really bad about myself. Besides, I think we’re only about half way through the poem. Plenty of time for what I can only assume will be good and happy things to happen to us all.”

Circe tapped her foot on her rammed earthen floor. Unfortunately, she was quite used to waiting on greased-up men to finish monologizing and bloviating, but she was rapidly tiring of the performance, what with all the events of the day.

“Well if you’re not here trying to abandon the crew, then what are you doing?” asked Odysseus.

The sailors hemmed and hawed as they tried to think of a suitable excuse, but then the second offered, “We were hoping to have sex with Circe too.”

“Yes,” agreed the second as he threw Circe an apologetic look, “we thought we might try.”

“That’s amazing!” thundered Odysseus, letting loose a hearty laugh. “That’s what I’m here for!”

“What are the odds?” laughed the second.

“We sure do like the sex, we adventurers,” ejaculated the first.

“That we do,” agreed Odysseus. “Very funny.”

“Too funny,” agreed Circe as she transformed all three of them into braying donkeys, for even the patience of a goddess has its limits.

Oh Athena, I sure do hope the fine film critics at the Daily Wire will approve of that! I know casting has been a sticking point for them. If it makes them feel better, they can swap the word ‘donkeys’ for ‘honkeys.’

Now for something on a more somber note: one last good bye to an old friend….

MONOLOGUE: CHUCK DARLING EULOGY

What left is there to say about Chuck Darling that hasn’t already been said?

I first met Chuck standing at the three-burner Newco FC-3 traditional glass coffee maker in the company kitchen, waiting for ol’ reliable to finish pumping out a fresh pot of decaf. My first day at the company! He asked me how much I knew about coffee. I told him I knew it’s supposed to be served warm. He gave me one of his classic Chuck Darling grins and said - and I’ll never forget this - “that dark sludge keeps the wheels of industry greased. And that’s your way in.”

As a young, burgeoning industrial coffee machine salesman, with admittedly very little knowledge about the coffee machine industry, I have to say that he was right. Many a-times did I use that very line in my sales spiel. Chuck became my mentor. But, not only that, he became my best friend.

Now, was he a notorious adulterer? Yes.

Did he have a bit of a non-PC sense of humor? Sure.

Was he a gutter racist? It depends what you mean - one man’s gutter is another man’s ditch.

But what you have to understand about Chuck is, he came from a different time. He was an old soul - born in the 1950’s, but culturally came from the 1850’s. He did not like to be challenged or confronted or second guessed. I went on several “house calls” with him, and I’m the first to admit that he did in fact have trouble selling to women - but it was only because he knew so much about the machines that he wanted to share with his customer, and he didn’t have patience for people wanting to discuss their “needs.”

I suppose some people might have found him insulting or abrasive or even abusive. I don’t know. You’d have to talk to the press, who apparently have all sorts of opinions about our friend, Chuck Darling. He was never anything but fun and funny around me. 

I do know that he was a complicated man. Only a complicated man would keep an entire second family trapped in a bunker beneath his deaf father’s house outside Des Plaines - allegedly.

We never talked about the so-called “Other Darlings,” but I’m sure Chuck had his reason for keeping them and for lying to his long-time wife Tamara - who looks as lovely as ever today. Hi Tamara. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you in these trying times. So sorry for your loss.

Was Chuck a notorious sugar-daddy? Sure.

Did he develop a taste for human flesh? Evidently.

Could he only achieve an erection if he knew somewhere, someone was in severe pain? I have no idea. And, frankly, dwelling on these sorts of questions - the type that true crime media freaks are so obsessed with asking - cheapens Chuck’s memory for me.

I remember one time - I know I’m running long, but I hope you’ll permit me one last story - we were in Bangkok for the International Coffee Machine Sales Exposition. I wanted to see the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, figuring I wasn’t likely to get back that way again, but I got myself all turned around and before I knew it, I was lost.

It was getting dark and, unbeknownst to me, I was straying further and further away from the Marriott. Something told me I should have brushed up a bit on my Thai during the flight, but in my defense Chuck and I’d been shooting tiny bottles of vermouth off the bar cart the whole way over the Pacific Ocean and we’d gotten pretty skunky if you’ll catch my meaning. 

Anyway, just as I was really getting scared, I noticed a light - an entire three story building was on fire. And, who should run screaming out of the building - after about five half-naked masseuses, one of whom had a bite taken out of his ear - than my best friend in the world, Chuck Darling.

I told him how relieved I was to see him, although judging by the puffy, glazed look in his eyes he might not have been in the mood to listen. In fact, the only thing he said to me was “wegottago,” and then he picked me up like a ragdoll, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me into the night.

Later, as the rickshaw took us back towards the Siam area, I tried asking Chuck about the building fire but all he wanted to talk about was arms munition sales. I thought it was weird, but that was Chuck - always the eccentric.

And I suppose that’s how I’ll always remember him - red eyed, jumpy, a piece of someone else’s ear hanging out of his mouth, giving his top ten list of countries he’d like to see bombed.

What a jokester. A very charming man.

Also, I think he once ran a school bus off the road and into the Fox River.

May he rest in peace.

And I’m sure he is doing just that…

Hey! Let’s check in on this running gag that I’m certain is still going strong…

BIT: GROUNDHOG REPORT FOR AUGUST 2026

It started as a game.

To be perfectly honest, we only wanted to rent the groundhog for a couple of weeks, figuring the Iran War would peter out as soon as everybody had lost interest. We dubbed the little fella “Hormuz Hugh” and figured he’d give us a good opportunity for some cheap alliteration and a couple chuckles. No harm done.

Well now Hugh has escaped and we have no idea where he’s gone.

About two weeks ago we stopped by his pen with some fresh greens, mostly just to check in on him and see how he was doing given the news of all the recent strikes in the Gulf region. We worried he might need his spirits raised. Truth be told, the past nearly half a year has taken a toll on the poor bugger. 

However, when we arrived we found his home in tatters - strips of the plywood siding had been ripped from their studs and laid over the top of his fence.

We found only one trace of him: the words “YOU DID THIS TO ME” scrawled in groundhog excrement across the yard.

Needless to say, we’re very worried - not just for Hugh’s wellbeing but also for our security deposit. The pet store probably won’t look too kindly on the obvious emotional and political torment that we’ve put the poor little guy through.

So, dear reader, if you could please keep an eye out for Hormuz Hugh (his real name is Sparkles, FYI) we’d greatly appreciate any leads you may have. He has a pointy face and small, round ears and an adorable little nose and, you know, he’s a groundhog - he looks like a groundhog.

Finally, a required public service announcement on a “new” “threat” to society…

MONOLOGUE: THE COMUNISS THREAD

Well, my friends, now we got Comuniss in our mist.

I’m sure lots of you folks thought Comuniss was a thing of the pass. ‘Ain’t Reagan kill the lass Comuniss?’ your asking. You ain’t no great Student O’Histry but even you member the Berlinwall comin’ down. ‘Shore their all gone by now?’

I thought that to, friends, but I’m hear to say it ain’t the case. Not only are they not dead, but their living and walking among us, going to the same grocer stores, walking round in the same parking lots as us, dranking our same water as you and me like nothings wrong.

How do we know the Comuniss is out here? We been worn. And not only is Comuniss here, it’s ‘The Gratest Thread in Our Nation’s O’Histry.’ They call it the Comuniss Men-Ass, and its here to get you and the thing you love moss: your money.

So we all got to be on watch - but ‘What are we looking four?’ you might be asking yerself. In fact, you might be purplex - how’d all these Comuniss sneak in here what with our Big Boy in the White House six of the lass ten years?

Nice question, smart ass. You prolly got a real smart mouf asking questions like that. Go eat your avocado toes and shut yer mouf.

The raisin nobody noticed the Comuniss Men-Ass rising up is cause the Comuniss now don’t look nothing like the Comuniss of the pass.

You don’t gotta be a Student O’Histry to know an old Comuniss. The old Comuniss:

• Wore red all the time
• Liked hammers and icicles
• Put minoratees in gulash
• Stood round in bred lines
• Gave all they industry to party elites
• Used porpaganda to keep folks dumb
• Worshiped they’re Dick Tater like he’s a god

Of coarse, now we know all these things is perfect lee fine if you got the rite Dick Tater.

But the Wiley Comuniss is a trickster, a shape shister. Now-a-days, Comuniss can look like jest about any one. Comuniss can look like your best friend or your nexdore neighbor. They can be taking your order or helping you put yore groceree in yore tronk.

Look behind you rite now! Theys a Comuniss looking over your shoulder! Unless your reading this in the bethroom (hey - im writing this from the bethroom!), in witch case your safe. But my skin crawls right out of my skin just thinking aboat all the Comuniss out there, lying in weight.

So how do you know one of these new Comuniss?

Well I wont tell you everything - I jest wrote a book you can buy for $18.00 on Amazon - but heres some tips to get started. A new Comuniss:

• Thinks tax money should go to fixing problems
• Thinks stealing money is bad
• Thinks doing bad at your job is bad
• Thinks folks shouldn’t suffer
• Thinks folks shouldn’t whored money
• Thinks blowing up other countrees is bad
• Thinks giving money to other countrees to blow up countrees is bad
• Thinks folks shouldn’t get sick all the time
• Thinks we shouldn’t put men and women and children in condensation camps

These Comuniss can be brown or black or white. They usually ain’t Christian, unless their Pope Christian or Woke Christian, in witch case their Comuniss. They usually vote leftiss, or liberal, or centeriss, or their RINOs, or else their anyone else were told they are. 

Now, of coarse, if you talk faced to faced, these folks will deny that their Comuniss. If you ask’em, their gonna say Comuniss don’t really exits in America, that their just regular folk trying to take care of their friends and family and make the country a better place for everybody to live in.

But don’t you belief them. These evil, evil, sick, evil Comuniss wont to destroy everything you and me love about our homeland and turn it into a place where any body can ford to buy lettuce that won’t make them crap there pants.

News flash, Comuniss: I like crapping my pants!

That’s watt freedom looks like.

If you wont to know more on the Comuniss Men-Ass, please consider buying my book - it took me a couple of knights to write it so you know its worth it. You need to know this stuff. As its bin sed, this is the Gratest Thread in our Nations O’Histry, and you don’t have to bee no Student O’Histry (in fact, better for everyone if yore not) to know its true.

Not climate change. Not fashionism. Not flation or the conomy. 

Its Comuniss.

Holy malapropism! That last piece damn near broke my spell-check! 

And with that, I think we’ve done it for another month. Thank you so much for reading!

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Hope you’ve enjoyed!  Love each other! Take care of each other!