Another Letter From A Fan

I just received this highly inspirational, insightful and correct letter from a fan:
"Dear Blitz. Your in-depth analysis of the shiny object in the sky and your actual encounter with it makes me believe that you are much more than an Alien Theorist. you are selling yourself short, my friend. Can i call you my friend? In my circles, gifted individuals such as yourself are more accurately known, appreciated, and yes, celebrated, as "Paranormal Theory Whisperers." Your pencil drawings perplex and intrigue me.

Although they can rival any HD picture that the best camera in the world can snap, you choose to share your world with us with gut wrenching and intimate images. You give us a glimpse of your universe. You invite us in. But then again, that's what a good whisperer does. You show us images so simple that common ungifted mortals like us understand. You come down to our level to impart your knowledge. You teach. You share. I only know one other individual on this planet with the same magnitude of talent. Just like Oprah, you are born to be a teacher and a healer. That is your gift. Your mission in life. Your calling. I am sure you are the prize and glory of Saskatchewanians all over the world."

Thank you dear reader, I'm deeply moved by your well wishes. It is truly a severe burden to bear, being as insightful and intuitive as I am. My sainted mother used to tell me this as I was growing up - mind you, I didn't understand what she was saying for the first years of my life because of the constant noise in the house. Everything came into focus when we got a "Silent Stan" meat grinder. Dad (when he wasn't hoboing) insisted on adding gravel and broken glass to the sausage mix and it made an awful racket! When we got the Silent Stan, Dad started using powdered glass and very fine ball bearings whic brought the decibel level down cosiderably.

But I digress. Mama encouraged me in my paranormal endeavors because mama had psychic abilities as well! She brought the skill of reading stockpots over from the old country. 

Stockpots from all over Angus Hat were brought to the house daily for my mom to read. She could tell if someone was cheating on their mate or who the real father of any baby was, just by analyzing the position of the limp carrots and celery in proximity to the chicken or beef bones. Needless to say, this was a highly specialized skill! Mama would tuck me in at night and sing opera to me. I mean entire operas in sequence over many nights. She was, naturally, fond of the Germanic repertoire so von Weber and Wagner were staples in our home. From birth to puberty all I heard was "der Ring das Nibelungen" in order. I remember my voice breaking just as mama sang Brunhilda's immolation song. After each installment, mama would lean over me and whisper "Bleetzie, you are ganz besonderer". She'd then go to my estranged brother Homer and whisper "Homikins, you are verruckt in der gehirn" I don't know what either meant but I know it was said with the best intentions.

Here's a picture my estranged brother Homer took of mom putting me to bed:

My mother is no longer with me; she's in that big kitchen in the sky, working in a restaurant up in the Calgary Tower. She sends her greetings now and then, and did get me in as the sole supplier for the sausage concession at the Calgary Saddle Dome.

Thanks again for the letter,

Blitz out.