March 12th, 1948

Cher Beatrice,

How I wish I was this letter! That I was held so sweetly in your hands! So caressed by your gentle eyes! Tell me, dahling, what you’ve been up to. Tell me how much you miss your little schmoopsy! Here in Moscow “we’re” initiating peasant collectivization for increased agricultural output. BOring. You should see how these kulaks whine! I say, “You don’t know real pain, cow-clod. Try being separated from your one true muffin-pie. Try that, ignoramus.” They just look at me and blink, smelling like beggar-winos (whinos, more like!). I kick their tushies with the boots you gave me. My “stomping boots,” I call them. Perhaps we can use these in the dress-up game when you return (when, when, when???)? Maybe, I was thinking, you can wear them and I can pretend to be a drunken kulak? I’m open to other suggestions. Only no more with the other guys; they make me feel jealous and insecure (aren’t those really the same feelings, my little lust-goddess?). How I do miss you! I think I will fuck the horse that brings you back to me…

Ton amour,

J. Stalin

p.s. I wrote you a song: “Love is a Gulag.” It’s got a terrific backbeat (my aides all say so). I can’t wait to sing it for you.

p.p.s. I included a wonderful harmonica solo in C sharp.

p.p.p.s. You don’t think the thing about the horse is weird, do you? I don’t have to do it. I would like to, though.

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