The Special Category

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An optional explanation about the anagram in green, the subject is in black, the anagram is in red.

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Dear Mr Viddik

I hate you. I hate you with a passion that has seethed for forty years, and unless I vent it, I'll erupt like a volcano.

You won't know me because I was one of the many little kids who passed through the torture chamber you called a classroom.

Yes Mr Viddik, you were my music teacher. But not any old teacher; you were an arrogant, sour, insensitive despot who single-handedly set back my musical appreciation by thirty years. Amazing!

Oh yes, you did demonstrate some classical stuff to us, but made no attempt to convey the passion, joy or genius that went into it, for you had none of these attributes yourself.

You made my musical appreciation a personal nightmare, and subjected me to the most humiliating experience of my life because I couldn't tell a crotchet from a quaver. In front of all my classmates, you beat a rhythm on my head with a blackboard eraser and, while great clouds of chalk-dust rained down past my tear-filled eyes, you shouted: "Tell me boy, what's going through that head now? Crotchets or quavers?"

The tragedy is, Mr Viddik, I do have an affinity for music. It can tear at my soul; it can lift my heart. I only have to hear something from 'Les Miserables' and I'm in tears. If I hear 'Night Fever' I'm up on the floor disco-dancing like a man inspired. But the classics leave me cold because they remind me of you.

Tragically, it is too late to redress this deficiency; it would take a lifetime to regain the knowledge and passion needed - and I hate you for that, Mr Viddik.

Are you wondering how I found your address? Easy: I looked in the phone directory and there you were. I didn't know if you'd still be alive because God knows you must be older than Methuselah, but I phoned the number and some nice old dear confirmed that yes, you had taught at my old school, and did I wish to speak to you? I said no - well, you can express hate so much better in a letter. And that's what I've done, and I feel great for having done it, so put that in your Wincarnis tonic-wine and drink it you swine.


A. Crafter.

Dear Crafter,

Infernal cheek! I don't drink Wincarnis; I am a whisky man through and through. And why you expect me to remember you, I can't imagine - all you kids were snotty-nosed little brats, and what's more, most of you felt the edge of that blackboard eraser on your tatty, oily little skulls.

My teaching methods were tried and proven year by year, and if you didn't learn from them, that's your own daft fault. How dare you call me insensitive? May God strike me dead if I ever displayed one jot of insensitivity towards any of my

Dear Mr Crafter,

As you can see from the enclosed letter, my husband received your communication, but was unable to complete a reply.

He showed me your letter before going into the lounge to give a piano lesson to Chico, a Brazilian music student. He instructed me to pour him a stiff Scotch and to leave it on his desk so that he could drink it whilst doing a reply to you. As was his custom, he had some particularly caustic comments to relay to you.

The reason he didn't finish it is because I found him slumped over his bureau, pen in hand, as dead as a dodo.

Do not blame yourself Mr Crafter; he was all the things you described him as. I should know, I spent a lifetime's association with the loathsome masochist. My friend, yours wasn't the only volcano to erupt ...

That remark, although symbolic, about putting your hatred into his Wincarnis tonic-wine, gave me an idea. He loved his daily whisky, and that proved to be his undoing, for the pungency of the whisky disguised the taste of the paraquat.

I know I can rely upon you to destroy this letter (after all, we are kindred souls are we not?) In any case, I'll be out of the country when you receive it. I intend to take up residence in Ipanema and to lead a life of unbridled debauchery with my attractive young paramour Chico who, I am delighted to say, has achieved a quite remarkable degree of manual dexterity as a result of my deceased husband's lessons.

My! My! At least he left one decent legacy!

Adios amigo!

A joyous,

Victoria Anita Viddik


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Poisoning Pigeons In The Park
Tom Lehrer

Spring is here, ah-spah-ring is here,
Life is skittles and life is beer.
I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring. I do. Don't you?
'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me,
And makes every Sunday a treat for me...

All the world seems in tune
On a spring afternoon,
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.
Every Sunday you'll see
My sweetheart and me,
As we poison the pigeons in the park.

When they see us coming, the birdies all try an' hide,
But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide...
The sun's shining bright,
Everything seems all right,
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

We've gained notoriety,
And caused much anxiety
In the Audubon Society
With our games.
They call it impiety
And lack of propriety,
And quite a variety
Of unpleasant names.
But it's not against any religion
To want to dispose of a pigeon.

So if Sunday you're free,
Why don't you come with me,
And we'll poison the pigeons in the park.
And maybe we'll do
In a squirrel or two,
While we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment,
Except for the few we take home to experiment...
My pulse will be quickenin'
With each drop of strych'nine
We feed to a pigeon
(It just takes a smidgin)
To poison a pigeon in the park!

A Weekly Entertainment
An ode arranged by Dick "Trigger Happy" Cheney and the Smoking Guns

It's hunting time! It's hunting time!
An airborne grouse and a gun sublime!
Yes, I must say - on weekends, I'm fond of one keen little hunt. A lot. You're not?
Go get shot!
You see, only some stooge won't admire it
And this shadowy wish which inspires it:

On my weekend retreats
I feel eerily sweet
When I pepper my pal in the face.
No impaired quails in flight
Would evoke this delight
As I pepper my pal in the face.

When those buckshots go in, they are sure to make quite a dent
But those are the risks when one hunts with Vice Presidents...
Even oil rigs or drills
Are no match to the thrills
When I pepper my pal in the face.

Well, I smoothly aspire
To feign a misfire,
But really aim higher
At his head.
And if he expires,
And someone inquires,
I'd long be retired
Or already dead.
So why go on this gun-toting journey
Without bagging me an attorney?

Come by next time, you may
View an awesome display
Of me, peppering our pals in the face.
Oh, we'd have tons of fun
And perhaps gun down nuns
While we pepper our pals in the face.

All week long I spook international terrorists
So how truly important one tiniest error is?
Yes, even Dick Nixon
Was getting his kicks on
One peppering diet -
Oh, ain't it a riot
To pepper my pals in the face!


You are my destiny
You share my reverie
You are my happiness
That's what you are

You have my sweet caress
You share my loneliness
You are my dream come true
That's what you are

Heaven and heaven alone
Can take your love from me
'Cause I'd be a fool
To ever leave you dear
And a fool I'd never be

You are my destiny
You share my reverie
You're more than life to me
That's what you are

You are my destiny
You share my reverie
You are my happiness
That's what you are

You are my misery
You steal my liberty
You are my soreness
That's what you are

Your adhesion, ah, so severe
Your presence, ah, so dire
You're my dream of heavy dread
That's what you are

Hell or inferno alone
Sent your pure venom to me
Because I'm a dupe
To live near a demon wretch
I'm even asinine!

You are my heavy faker
You steal my heyday
You're a disease to me
That's what you are

You are my achy fever
You steal my heaven
You're even a vampire
That's what you are