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Dear Hussalonia: Letters from Animals, Mostly Ducks

by Hussalonia

Dear Hussalonia, I am writing in regards to the breakfast cereal ban. It is no secret that millions of people begin their day with a balanced breakfast that revolves around a bowl of cereal. It is the reasonable thing to do. However, the politically motivated breakfast cereal ban, effective January 1st, 2010, prohibits people from including cereal in their healthy, well balanced breakfasts. Sure, most people will simply replace cereal with a bowl of granola or grits. But what will the breakfast cereal mascots do? These loveable, anthropomorphic, cartoon animals have been loyally championing puffed rice and crunchy oat kibbles for nearly one hundred years. It is not fair that they should be the ones to suffer from our inability to behave. Just the other day I saw a cartoon turtle offering twenty-five-cent shoeshines outside the local cinema. I'm pretty sure I once saw him on a box of Cruncheroos with Puffin, the marshmallow bird. It's a shame. My heart goes out to all the animated bears, birds, and elves who are currently out of work. Stay strong, little ones. Signed, Soupy Sandcastle III The Muffin Mix mascot
Dear Hussalonia, I've taken all the glasses from the cupboard and filled them with soapy water. It's the closest thing I have to champagne. There is a glass on nearly every surface of the house. I close my eyes and bump into tables, asking no one in particular, is this your drink? And even though I'm alone, it's always someone else's drink. Signed, Natasha the Lemur
Dear Hussalonia, I am a proper duck properly groomed at the Nomonyx Academy for Stiff-Tailed Ducks. The other day while on a promenade through Delaware Park, I was most offended to see you, Hussalonia, fraternizing with the infamously gregarious Whistling Duck. These vagrant duck are not only tactless, tuneless whistlers, but they belong to the ruffian Dendrocygna family of ducks. While these ducks may be what you uncivilized bi-pedals might call "a hoot," amongst ducks, they are most crude. Ducks do not have lips and should not whistle. If you know better, Hussalonia, you and your listeners will stay away from the Whistling Duck. Signed, a stiff-tailed duck
Dear Hussalonia, What happens to the air at night? Why does it make me want to climb trees, wake the birds, and kiss their silly beaks? I press my nose right up to the screen to get a better smell, but then all I smell is metal. Occasionally, a cat will make a hole just small enough to slip through, plotting two, maybe three, hours of soft paws on concrete, but getting more than one cat head can account for. Exhilarating I'm sure, but I'd miss the smell of fresh newsprint every Sunday and burnt dust in the fall when the furnace kicks on for the first time. Instead, I sit so still on this window sill, you'd think I were fake, crystallized by that dangerously charged air like a fossil frozen in amber. Do the runaways think of their former lives as house cats? Or is that erratic look in their eyes indicative of some greater knowledge we domesticated animals couldn't possibly understand? Signed, a house cat
Dear Hussalonia, I was at the local candy shop the other day wanting to purchase a box of chocolates for my sweetheart. I asked the man behind the counter to suggest something. He proceeded to show me a box of chocolate ducks. Those chocolates were the most offensive depictions of ducks I have ever seen in my life. They had fat, round bodies with beady eyes made of sugar drops. Their necks were silly, little tubes. Someone even had the audacity to render the duck's feet with really exaggerated webs. How ignorant. When will you stupid, bi-pedal humans recognize how species-ist you are? Especially when it comes to ducks. We are not all fat, waddling fowl, content to quack up a storm in your local pond. Despite the caustic, bursting rasps of our voices, most of us are, in fact, quite articulate. That is, if you were only smart enough to understand our quacks. I was so angry with the chocolatier that, in a heated frenzy, I flapped my feathered wings right in his face and proceeded to erratically jab him in the belly with my rounded bill. I bet he has learned his lesson. Signed, a duck
Dear Hussalonia, I am a pony. I like you. Here I am again. Your voice relives the burden of children on my back. Crying, kicking children. Here I am again. I had a dream and you were in it. Here I am again. I rode your back for 40 miles and then carried your exhausted, tubular body back to where we began. Let me be your pony bride. We'll make pony humans. Beautiful pony people. We'll take no one on our backs. I love you, Hussalonia. Here I am again. Here I am again. I'm so tired of going in circles. This arrangement only augments the cyclical, fatalistic, futility of life on earth. Here I am again. And again. And again. And again. Love forever and always, a pony
Dear Hussalonia, I am the union duck who quacked in the face of the infant. Allow me to defend myself. I was minding my own business in the park when I noticed the infant pointing at me, and while laughing, repeatedly calling me a duck. I tried to ignore the infant, but it kept pointing and calling me "duck," thereby denying me my identity as a thinking, breathing individual. Dear listener, tell me, how you would contend with a duck repeatedly calling you "human"? The actions of this infant reduces me onto a level with all ducks, as if we were a lowly, instinctive species without complicated and often contradictory thoughts and feelings. I was so angry that, had I teeth, I would have eaten the infant. I'm tired of infants hiding behind the guise of innocence to protect their deplorable ignorance. Why don't the infants go back to where they came from? They can't even fly. I will never understand your human willingness to let these beasts, with their low motor skills and nonsensical babbling, into your homes while you shoo us ducks away. Signed, a union duck
Dear Hussalonia, I am an angry kitten. I hate you and your drapes. I can't wait until you leave so I can rip your couch to shreds. I hate you. See my tail get fat when you walk in the room? It's because you fill my furry head with venomous scorn. Say goodbye to your slippers, you abhorrent bi-pedal. I hate you. Signed, an angry kitten
Dear Hussalonia, Geese are filthy, vile beasts. Let one in your house and they will not even wipe their feet before they enter. They'll track mud all over your floors that you just washed. Then, if they use your lavatory facilities, they'll get water all over the place, even the ceiling. Your decorative soaps will be turned into tiny, shapeless monsters. I let a goose use my bathroom last week. Now, my good hand towels have web prints all over them. Down with geese. Signed, Marcy Casino
Dear Hussalonia, I am Russian mail-order bear who has just recently been brought to your fantastic nation founded on freedom. Recently, my master took me to a place you Americans call the Lincoln Memorial. At first, I thought he was a czar or a king when I saw him sitting in that huge throne. But as I got closer, I realized he was not sitting on a throne, but on a large, rather plain, square chair. Then I noted the way his right hand anxiously gripped the arm of the chair, while his left hand clenched into a fist. This is not the body language of aristocracy. Mister Lincoln seemed agitated. The way his left foot is not quite on the platform suggests a perpetual transitory state. It's as if he just sat down for a moment, and like a man on a mission, will be up and out of his chair the second you look away. I thought a lot about that left foot and how it gives Lincoln a continual feeling of unrest, how he will always be in a state of anxiety about this great nation of yours. I was so inspired that I began to read his Gettysburg Address, wondering what this great man might have to say to me, a newcomer to the land of the free. However, my master then administered a 300-kilovolt electroshock with his taser gun which sent me into a wild and frenzied dance. He brandished a melodeon out of his battered suitcase and began to play Swannee River while I involuntarily gyrated. Delighted tourists crowded around to watch, some of them throwing pennies at me, which I couldn't help but notice were stamped with Mr. Lincoln's stoic face. Signed, a Russian mail-order bear


released February 14, 2010

For Hussalonia's 30th release we bring you an album full of letters written by animals (mostly ducks). What? You say you don't care for spoken word records? Well, that's just fine! That's why we've set these letters to ten, brand new Hussalonia tracks, all exclusively recorded for this perplexing release.




Hussalonia Buffalo, New York

Hussalonia is largely the work of a multi-instrumentalist known only as The Hussalonia Founder.

Founded in 1997, Hussalonia is a "pop music cult" and claims to be owned by Nefarico™, a fictional soap company.

The Hussalonia Founder lives and works in Buffalo, New York.
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