I’m a writin this here letter to set out the truth, plain as day. Everone knows the dangers of them force air furnaces, so I won’t go into no laborations here. But for my man to say I’m agin the chemi-cals is just plane horse manure. What weed do without them pesti-cides, I can’t farthom. As for them micro-waves, well we don’t own nothin else, so I ain’t too sure bout that. Prit sure there were somethin else, but can’t re-call what, unless he brung up them flushin toilets, which bout scare the skirts off me, so I’ll let him get this here letter off to the newspaperman so my good name, Milly, can be clear.