It’s the entire alphabet (and the first 10 numeric digits) spelled out in butterfly wing markings. The picture has since been removed—to where, ominously, no one in my household knows—but that image was something I always liked.

Despite it being the sort of thing my friends used to make fun of my family for having whilst we sat in that basement, underage, pre-gaming with Svedka and playing Texas Hold’em, it meant something to me.

To me it represented opportunity.

It intriguingly displayed 26 letters that, when put together in words forming sentences forming paragraphs forming chapters forming books or speeches or communications, in right, wrong or neither ways, in myriad languages, has and does and will define things.

With all there is to say about the alphabet, I’ve come up with one simple truth:

The field is even. We all have the same 26 letters to work with.

Alphas do things with those letters us betas only wish we could.

I love the alphabet!  To me it means love because love happens on Valentine’s Day and Valentine’s Day is in February and there are 28 days in February and 28 letters in the alphabet*.  So that means that the alphabet means love.

In the Bible, 1 John 4:8 says, “God is love.”  Well, in my Bible, that verse reads, “The alphabet is love.”  I actually scratched it out and rewrote it.  So I guess that means the alphabet is my God.  Is the alphabet my religion?  Well, I’m not really sure about that.  I haven’t thought about it that much.

But I do know that I don’t like to call the alphabet the alphabet.  I like to call the alphabet the alphabetter, because I think it’s better than anything else ever.  Maybe the alphabest is a better name.  I’ll have to think about that.  I need to figure out what the best name for the alphabet is.  In the mean time, we’ll go with the alphabest because it sounds the best.  And I love it and want it to sound the best ever.

And I love Valentine’s Day too.  Valentine’s Day was on a Saturday this year and I bought my lady a denim jacket with rhinestones on the back that spelled out Honeydew.  I call her Honeydew because she’s my honey and I love the dew that forms on the grass on a spring morning and it reminds me of her because she’s fresh all the time.

Her name is Helen and she’s my second favorite thing ever.  We like to gather round the piano and sing duets of Jackson by Johnny Cash.  I love Helen for sure.  She’s a beaut, and she loves the way my butt looks in my Dockers, but I can’t help it, I love the alphabest more.  It’s my favorite thing ever!

*Unlike Terry here, I am well aware that there are 27 letters in the alphabet.

Regardless, I don’t want what follows to come off as an indictment or a criticism.  Rather, I just want to pose the question of completeness.  I believe it would be arrogant to think that the 26 letters that we use are all that’s out there.  Is it possible that there are letters we don’t know about?  Let’s term these undiscovered letters.

Now, what could these letters be used for?  What about that sound a strong passing of gas releases?  Ppppbpbbzzzzzzzzthwwwwppppp.  Is that adequate?  Does that truly capture the moment of escape?  The embarrassment of relief?  The pride of departure?  Perhaps not.  I believe there’s a void here occupied by an undiscovered letter, one that I think looks like this:

Imagine a paragraph of your favorite humor magazine ending with a long string of these majestic letters.  You’d get the point, and the punch line, much more clearly.

Perhaps this could emote the sound that comes from banging your leg against the table, kind of a gkangthaaaaahhherrrrr! type sound:

And finally, I can’t help but think that writers of romance novels and pornography scripts would be grateful for something that could better express the sounds of pleasure:

Perfect.

How did we start with A?  When you think about it, we never question the order that our alphabet bet is in, yet it dictates so much of our life – our place in line during gym, who we sit next to in class, the location of our locker, cubicle, or even car.

And this would be fine, if all letters were created equal.

But they’re not.

Every letter has its own story that connotes something different in our minds.

A is the ego, the line leader – famous for being first.

B is the big brother who eats too much, but not one can ever get the strength to tell him that, one day, he will lose his legs to diabetes.

C is the cool cat that doesn’t understand science, but has never had to because he can smile at things that are very serious.

D is the beginning of nickname and the end of a train line – a place where joke starts and journey ends.  It’s just d.

E rhymes with D and has many of its, and C’s, characteristics.  E makes things happen.

F is powerful like a rinocerous in heat.  Do not touch.  No pictures please.

G is round and flowerful like a bachelor uncle who is a homosexual.  G will give you really good birthday presents, even though you wouldn’t mind if he forgot about the party.

H is the strong, silent type like the hostess at a japanese steakhouse.  Know it, count on it, but never let it know where you live.

I is worth its weight in cross country skis.  Whatever that means.

J has many nickname forms, but mostly conjures up images of unsolved murders in a trailer park.  Close your eyes, think “J” – ahh, there they are.

K is like an eastern bloc hooker who has never met a cheeseburger.  Lonely and willing to accept any offer given, K frequents bowling alley parking lots.

L belongs to the world of slang and abused hip-hop phonetics.  Its vernacular use is closely tied to the inverse correlation between rap album releases and the Dow Jones Index.

M sells things out of her kitchen, makes enough to live by and desperatley wants to move to that “farm”.

N is a transaction oriented Aries who like to make things happen. N is blinded by the possibilities of today.

O is continous and harminous and feels most at home in rural parts of Canada.

P is the drunk friend of a friend at Karaoke night.  P is a white collar slave that has given up on the dream.

Q is the most potent of the letters.  Like enriched uranium, a little dab will do.

R worked for years to make partner and, now that he has, will never let you forget about it.  He belongs to all the city clubs, even though his workout consists of sitting in the steam and then jumping in the pool.  Suspenders, everywhere.

S is evil and not to be trusted.  It represents both the fall of man and the pain and guilt that has kept him there.  We depend on it, just like any addict has to.

T is a bouncer at a dance club in Memphis.  Short, and five years behind in style, he lives at the intersection of the napoleanic complex and too much gel.

U is the personal-impersonal side of capitalism.  Everything is yours to have, nothing is yours to keep.

V represents the duality of women; dependable, thoughtful, needed – erratic, malicious, desperate.

W is the regal emperor whose reign is simply symbolic.  Interoggative in nature, it rarely gives an answer worth implementation.

X represents the seedy underbelly of alphabet city.  One alleyway, one red light bulb, one night you will never forget.

Y is the all-accepting monotheistic bumper sticker.  One concept, many executions; truth has many paths.

Z is the magic mirror, taking your projections and reflecting what you want to see, but, as Garth Brooks said, “some of God’s greatest gifts are unaswered prayers.”