FICTION - Letter from Groucho to Karlo Marx

October 4, 1945
Hollywood, CA

Dear Karlo,

Greetings and hesitations! I hope this letter finds you doing well, and if it doesn’t find you doing well I hope at least that it finds you doing laundry. The family is fine. Chico is starring in an off Burbank revival of, The Cecil of Demille. I haven’t seen it yet; a night at the opera is only as entertaining as the woman sitting next to you. As always, Harpo is the talk of the town. Yesterday I dined with him and Marcel Marceau and couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Zeppo is still the proverbial lady’s man; he is convinced this will keep his dance card twice as full. Unfortunately, Gummo quit the act and moved to Salt Lake City in search of the loves of his life.

Now, about the letter and manifesto you sent me; I’ve given your words lengthy consideration and will try reading them when I get the time, unfortunately my pocket watch is broken. As your older brother I hope to give you some wise council, and if not, just a swift kick in the trousers.

I might enjoy one of your Communist parties, trusting they have stacked hors d’oeuvres and women of the same caliber. Sounds like a red-tie affair to me. Do I need to bring anything, a bottle of wine, a hammer and sickle? Come to think of it, I may have some surplus value in the cupboard leftover from New Years. I’m not accustomed to hob-knobbing with dazzling socialists and their comrades; I am happy to spend a quiet evening at home with a smoldering tuna and cigar on rye. And speaking of food, if the workers are complaining about salary, tell them your older brother eats his salary with peanut butter and a few raisins. Chico dips his salary in blue cheese dressing.

When it comes to understanding commodity, I’ve been around the block a few times and let me tell you it is certainly quicker than going over the block. Commodity is not an easy business. I once tried my hand at stand-up commodity; I was young and afraid to try both hands. I couldn’t get a laugh anywhere in town, probably because I forgot to make reservations. I even performed a night in Casablanca, a sordid hamlet with a cinematic past. My friend Sid Perelman writes commodity pieces for the New Yorker and does rather well, when he is not doing his laundry that is.

I was shocked to hear about the exploitation of the masses. When priests get hungry they should order in Chinese. The wine and bread is for Eucharist; and as soon as I save some dough, I can have Mycharist. But as angry as the people are, revolution seems extreme. I think those peckish priests would be willing to give up this monkey business and listen to reason, especially if reason agreed to pay their grocery bills.

I have learned a few things about the means of production. I have made more than a handful of movies, which means I have to carry most of them in my coat pockets. First, you’ve got to trust your director. He is the brain-factory who takes raw materials and turns them into profit, which, in my opinion, requires a capital amount of talent. Second, a successful movie needs to have a solid script, not just snappy dialectic that explains the synthesis of class struggle throughout history, but a dynamic plot, plenty of witty one-liners and gorgeous dames. Lastly, I would recommend leaving stories about the alienation of the workers to men like H.G. Wells.

As for bourgeoisie versus proletariat, you’re going to have to give me the house odds before I can make my wager on that race. I have learned if you bet your money before you see your horse, you bet your life, which would not be that bad if you didn’t have to explain it to your wife when you got home. Call me cocoanuts, but I don’t understand why people are arguing over wagers? If this race track is on the up and up then nobody should have to worry about fair wagers. Instead of putting your money on proletariat, maybe you should spend it on something worthwhile, like a steam-powered top hat or disposable cufflinks.

Well I guess I should end this diatribe before it goes to war with another tribe and before you know it we both have shrunken heads on our shoulders. Give Freddo Engels my regards; and if he doesn’t want my regards give him my salad fork, and if he doesn’t want that tell him he’s a knobby-nosed shyster.

Write Back Soon,
Groucho