In May of 64 B.C., General John Maximus Tiberius Grantus led the troops of the glorious Roman Empire into battle in Spain or England or… somewhere, I dunno. How about we say Gaul? ‘Cause the Romans were always after Gaul – which is actually just France, but the French started calling it Gaul to sucker in rich tourists who would hopefully make all sorts of expensive, non-refundable hotel reservations there before realizing they were going to visit France which is a beautiful country marred only by the fact that French people live there. Anyway, General Grantus was invading France and he wrote this poignant letter home to his wife in Rome:
“My darling Rita, I hope this letter of mine finds you well. The signs are good that we will march in the next few days. How do I know? Well, I’m the General so it’s pretty much up to me. We are fighting some French people or something for some reason related to the glory of Caesar or Nero or whoever just stabbed someone there and is in charge now.
Anyway, I’m probably going to die. I mean, there it is, you know? I don’t feel like I oughta sugar-coat it for ya. I mean, you’ll find out when the priest shows up to break the news for you anyway and then after he gives you the news you will be obligated to stab him because we don’t tolerate Christians.
I want to assure you that my last thoughts will be of you though. As I gaze over the battlefield of severed limbs, crushed heads, dead horses, and pools of congealing blood I will think of your mother… then, by association I will think of you. Unless I bleed out before then.
I want you to know that if I do die, I will always be with you. I will follow you as you do your daily beatings of our slaves, I will listen to your care-free laugh as you sit around eating grapes, I will be next to you as you watch people getting eaten by lions. In short, I will be an albatross around your neck – stalking you wherever you go and chilling your blood with my haunting cries of anguish! So, you know, you’ve got that going for you.
Oh my darling Rita, I miss you out here – I miss your warm caress. Sure, I have lots of sex with various prostitutes and the women that we subjugate out here, but there’s no meaing in that – it’s just meaningless, incredibly hot, get-down-on-your-knees-and-thank-God-you-are-a-man sex. And where’s the joy in that?
Well, whatever. Anyway, Bob Hope is here, so we’re going to go check that whole thing out. Make sure you walk the dog. Write me back unless I’m dead.
Love ya, babe,