Approaching Louisville, the Tin Hind was almost swallowed up in the Great Ohio Flood (which preoccupied the radio news for days; I hung over my superheterodyne set) and he was unable to visit a new correspondent of Lovecraft's there.
“I have to go now,” she’d say to the grocery clerk. “My mother-in-law is back at the house, jonesing for her lunch.”
Hate mail is just straightforward abuse ... the equivalent of what is called, in the comic-strip trade, grawlixes: @%&&#!!
“You want sucky sucky! No sucky sucky here!” “Huh?” I asked. “This not sucky sucky place, we don't do that, wesbian!”
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