Scouring for Monroe

I sat in Café La Patrie sipping sherry wine and eating the finest plate of Spanish yams. The sweltering sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the plaza. Sweat beads began to form on my lower back and forehead, as I gently licked the sweet candied glaze off of each perfectly formed yam.
Children and young lovers played and danced in front of the great town's fountain. Oh how I admired the intricate beauty of these people and their old world culture. How I wished Monroe could see me - how he would laugh at the sight of me in my white linen suit, eating such fine delicacies.
Church bells rang out in the distance when the waiter came rushing up to the table. He handed me a letter from my old friend Brian back in the states. It was dated from last October and had signs of severe water damage - all I could make out was the postscript which read, "May your scrotum be singed by the flames of truth." and as I read these last parting words, my eye lids fluttered apace, as thick yam glaze drooled forth from my quivering lips and onto my person.