I'm gonna throw you squid foo! Not even deep oceanic pressures can stop the T. Like I always says "Stay in milk! Don't do school! Drink your drugs!" and don't you forget it foo!

-Mr. T you foo!

---

I can suffer the cruelty of you mud-chimps no longer!

You are all, even now, bathing in the radiation of your one thousand assorted devices. Your cellular telephones, your videographic cameras, your microwave food-heating devices, your cathode-ray displays . . . do you not see the cloud of death which hovers about your bodies every second of the day?

Translated upon my chromatically pixilated epidermis I view the glowing, flickering dreams of your infant society and, despite myself, I am transported by the intricacy of your tender imagery. And yet it is produced by way of cruel sacrifice. So many of your "luminaries" dying, their epiglottis thick with the mucus-spittle of the end days.

Lucille Ball, "Rock" Hudson (that dear dear man), James Henson, George Peppard, Michael Landon, and even now, subtle and sad Laurence Tureaud, your Mr. T.

True, Laurence has not yet been claimed. But surely you can see him hovering upon the brink, so much like the one named for the feral predator, that Fox named Michael. Oh, the Foxes, the little Foxes . . .

And here you are laying out his life's work as a string of paltry malapropisms.

Laurence Tureaud is a gentle man who loves nothing more than to see a child smile. Do you not remember "Mr. T and the T-Force"? Leading those dear street urchins into battle so that they might not starve or fall into disrepute? Even in the animated scrawlings of a morning "cartoon" this Laurence was a thousand times the human you are, cruel epistolary author.

Laurence Tureaud is a protector of the just, standing ever like the fair knight at the gates of many a Chicago establishment, keeping the peace and through the judicious use of bicep flexing maintaining a hard won peace upon the streets. Can you say as much, coward at the computer screen? Have you faced down the jittery, unpredictable threats of a thousand crack addled ruffians?

And finally, Laurence Tureaud is a gifted thespian. With but a curled lip to Face he was able to elicit hours of laughter from me. And when it was questioned as to whether he might in fact enjoy the company of men over the company of women (a question posed indirectly but often by the hat endowed madman helicopter pilot Murdock), the joy and pathos of his rage was enough to sate my mind for weeks. His work as B.A. Baracus for the much vaunted Primary Team Alpha is to be lauded for generations to come.

Pray to your monkey gods, my scurrying and cowering readers. Pray that your folly has not already cost Laurence his life. For if an angel such as he is to suffer and you are only to mock him, the cruelty I shall shower on you will increase ten thousand fold.

His name is Laurence Tureaud. He is a man. He has given his life for your pleasure.

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles is where Laurence is receiving care. You shall all contact him and wish him well. I command it!

GS