John Weston Osburn

City Weekly regularly receives letters from folks in the pokey—generally extremely earnest, sometimes well-written, but invariably far too long for publication. Few incarcerated letter writers, however, display wit and way with words of one John “Weston” Osburn, who wrote in to tell not of “some egregious abuse of power, some travesty of institutional racism or heinous incident of police brutality,” but to complain of a toothache (“My poor old folks paid good money once to straighten out the choppers, and now some sadistic apron-wearing maniac right out of Little Shop of Horrors is going to leave me looking like a meth-ravaged fiend.”). Those of us who can barely function with a loose filling could only marvel at Osburn’s ability to maintain a sense of humor about the whole thing. We hope his teeth found relief.

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