Dear Voo Doo Folks:

I think you people are great. My sister sends me Voo Doo mags after she reads them. I am writing to give emotional and moral support. I attend a nameless state-college called Washington State University, we have cows. My pathetic life revolves around tasteless works of art, reruns of M*A*S*H, and selected strains of bacteria (them's good eat'n fungus.) Living in the kingdom of rednecks is not a joy. Voo Doo enables me to be Ego Syntonic.

Good Bye,


Jeez, lady, what kind of fungus is that?

Dear Phos,

Recently while my boss was away on an extended trip to Europe, Asia, and the Middle East, I came upon Voo Doo's home page. As I read the articles, I could feel myself going back to my idyllic days at the 'tute. I particularly liked the article by Hunter Negroponte (call him "Hun"). It shows that there still is room for good old American ingenuity, and lots of it!

What's troubling me is this. How come half the feature articles aren't available online? You guys may be blowing your only shot of ever being really published.

If there is some gross commercial reason, I'll understand, but I thought Voo Doo was always given away free. How much do you think anybody would pay for it anyway?

Maybe it's fear of the Web censor police? It doesn't seem likely. Just leave out the first and last names of the object of your raunchy adolescent droolings.

Please look into this shortfall of articles. I'm beginning to wake up at 2:00am wondering what's going on.


We can't put any more articles on the Web server BECAUSE YOUR DICK'S STUCK IN IT ALL THE TIME!!

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am conducting research on voodoo as alternative medicine. It is very difficult to find credible resources and I would appreciate any information or guidance you might be able to provide.

Deborah Hurst

All we can say is that VooDoo is the only thing that keeps us Ego Syntonic in this fast-paced, fungus-chewin' world.

Dear President Vest,

I am writing to you about my only son, Stephen. I believe he has suffered permanent brain damage as a result of attending an MIT sponsored orgy he referred to as Styrose, apparently named after some MIT-invented chemical or drug. That is what he called it when he could still talk. Now he cannot even produce articulate human sounds. For five days he did nothing but sit in our back yard like a vegetable, watching my garden grow. Throughout that time, I was thought seriously of having him committed -- that is how bad it was. Now, it is even worse. Three times today I had to prevent him from harming himself.

The first time, I caught him by the barbecue trying to light a match. He had poured out a whole economy size bottle of charcoal lighter fluid and it was everywhere: on the charcoal, splashed all over the wooden sun deck, his pants, his hands, even his shirtsleeves, all the way up to his shoulders. What was he trying to do?! The only reason the match would not light was because it, too, was sopping wet with lighter fluid.

The second time was with a garden hose. I had made him change his clothes and take a shower, and then stayed with him until I was sure he would remain sitting peacefully in a lounge chair. Do you know I even thought of tying him to the chair? But I was too afraid he might somehow strangled himself with the rope! I had stepped inside only to use the bathroom and fix him some lemonade, and then when I checked on him from my kitchen window, he was all tangled up in the garden hose and swinging from our biggest elm tree! If not to hang himself, Mr. Vest, what on earth do you think he was trying to do? I had to rush right out there and cut him down using my biggest and best kitchen knife, all but ruining its blade on the metal-mesh-reinforced hose. Do you have any idea what such things can do to a mother?

The third and last time was the strangest. I had removed all potentially hazardous materials and implements from the backyard, all the time keeping him in my direct sight. He was sitting again, and I would not budge from his side. In the one moment when I paused from reading my magazine to rub my eyes -- for I had been crying -- he suddenly spilled the entire pitcher of lemonade into a patch of bare soil in the garden and stuck his face in the mud it made. I believe he was trying to drown himself. I wrestled him out of the mud, and then, with both knees planted squarely on his back to keep him from getting up, I reached for the cordless and dialed 911. They came and they took my baby away, Mr. Vest. I just want you to know that my husband and I hold you personally responsible for everything that has happened. Our son has been placed in a private hospital, the best that money can buy, and we have retained attorneys, also the best that money can buy. They have advised me not to contact you, but I am Stephen's mother, and I will not be silent until justice is served. The next letter you receive from us will be in the form of a legal summons.

Emily Dickens, Stephen's mother