Dear Senor Fats,

My name eez Rosa Sossalito Martinez del Corro Gutierrez Anastasios Pocalipso Nunez.  What do ju do eef someone offer you dee "spethal sauth" and yet he never deeleever on de promise?  Jor advays ees greatly needed.  Rright now I have another sooter named "Estud" who wants to geeve me his spethal sauth but I am waiting to see if de other shentleman will keep hees promise.
Muchas gracias,
Rosa


Well well well, now there's a name Fats hasn't heard in many many years, mainly because it takes too long to actually say it and, quite honestly, Fats doesn't have the longest attention span.  I might as well introduce you - Rosa, my adoring fans.  My adoring fans?  Rosa. 

Much has changed since we last met, my sweet sweet Rosa, whose potent fragrance of dill has never ceased to inspire and confuse.  For instance, Fats has enrolled in pretty rigid written linguistics classes to eliminate his accent from his typing, unlike some other people he notices.  This is America, after all: love it or leave it!  Fats also can't help but notice a new name dangling precipitously on the end of yours: Nunez.  Who is this fabled Nunez who has won your hand?  And how long did that marriage last?  Hopefully long enough to eat the cake.  You always did love cake.  Actually, you were a very peculiar person who only liked food that was circular. 

Perhaps Fats should not be so vague to his regular readers.  Let Fats paint the picture: imagine if you will the Peruvian city of Capachica (meaning: cup o' ladies) overlooking the banks of Lake Titicaca.  The sun is setting over the sleepy village and there is quiet mariachi music coming from the house band at El Cabesa Grande, where a beautiful young woman sits quietly, inexplicably sipping her lobster bisque.  A gentle breeze blows through the scene, and a waiter with a micron-thin mustache drops a tray full of lemons and salt. 

From the shadows comes a dashing yet mysterious figure, lean and muscular enough to make his salmon-colored shirt struggle a bit at the seams.  He wears a fedora of unnatural colors and speaks with a certain baritone swagger.  He spies the fair-faced lady, sitting alone and wearing a napkin in a wholly inappopriate way.  She chews only with her incisors and washes down her food with sips of a purple drink that has more umbrellas in it than should really be acceptable.  She wears a sun dress, or perhaps blue pants and a smock.  She winks at the dashing yet mysterious man, who is so cool you could freeze your tongue to him just by licking sour cream from his cheek.

Just then, a speedboat crashes into El Cabesa Grande, scattering people everywhere and destroying the fated meeting that was to be.  Before hurrying off to rescue kittens and old people, the dashing yet mysterious man gives her a smile and mouths the words: "I promise on my father Stubby's grave that you will one day know my spethal sauth," and flees the scene in an unparalleled act of heroism.

Fats doesn't often like to bring up his colored past, but in this case, it is inexorably linked to the advice.  The first part is this: always... ALWAYS trust anything that is mouthed.  Once voice is added, the tambor of vocal chords can distort the truth.  But the purity of a mouthed sentence cannot be questioned.  If Nixon had just mouthed, "I am not a crook," the entire landscape would be very different right now.  Try it: mouth something to someone, even something assinine like "Carp will one day be currency."  Before long, you will find yourself paying off your mortgages by scraping a few scales off the bottom of your dinghy.  Actually, in our current economic state, that may happen sooner rather than later. 

Beyond that, there is the issue about your new sooter [sic] "Estud" (count you lucky starts that I didn't go [sic]-happy all over your question).  Seriously, Estud?  What is he, Latvian?  Never trust a Latvian, you heard it here first.  When a Latvian says he will give you his spethal sauth, the only liquid you'll see are the tears that escape your eyes as your spirit is crushed.  Even if he isn't Latvian, his name is Estud.  If you even consider accepting his spethal sauth, you'll be the laughing stock of Cacaphia, and that says something of a town whose lake is called Titicaca. 

Finally, Fats needs to speak directly to Rosa now.  If you are no Rosa, please stop now and catch up with Fats next time he pours out sagacity like a cup o' ladies.  Submit your questions HERE!
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Rotha, I love you, and I have not forgotten about you.  I lie awake nighth, thtaring at the theiling, pining for your theriouthly untamable hair to wear ath a blanket, and to be bathed in your admittedly freakithly plump lipth.  If you wait for me, there will be tho much thpthial thauth you won't know how to even fully enjoy it.  Thrtrike that, you won't even be able to grathp it all.  Meet me once again at El Cabetha Grande, table theven.  June 2, 2010.  Maybe around ten thirty.  I will be carrying a thingle red rothe, for my favorite dill-thmelling thingle Rotha.   Until we meet again....