Letter to Dr. Dishup
April 29, 2008
Dear Dr. Dishup,
Your letter arrived in my mailbox this morning. In the future I would appreciate your sending any correspondence directly to my igloo rather than my mailbox. I live in Alaska, for the luvapete. Walking fifty yards out to a mailbox might not sound like much to you, but we have bears up here, bucko. Hungry bears. Horny ones too. That's right, we have bears who lurk around outside, hiding behind trees, smoking cigarettes, flipping through Field&Stream magazine and stroking their big furry bear cocks, just waiting for some sleepy old fart in jammies to wander out of his igloo, all groggy and vulnerable. How dare you put me in such jeopardy? Retrieving your blasted letters could cost me a purple ass, and I have no idea what kind of shoes to wear with a purple ass.
Anyway, thank you for sending me the lab results from my fertility test. I told you my little guys packed a wallop. Good thing you didn't stick your finger in that cup of my goo or you'd have a baby me growing under your nail. Try explaining that one to your friendly neighborhood glove salesman. You do have a friendly neighborhood glove salesman, don't you? Perhaps you should move to a friendlier neighborhood.
And even though I've had a vasectomy, I still think it was unnecessary for you to extract the sperm from my testicle with a needle. My buddy Urdo thinks you did it that way to get your rocks off, and I believe him because he has a thing on his neck and people with things on their necks don't lie. That's iron clad, you can look it up. Or you can just believe me 'cause I have a thing on my neck too.
Urdo also told me that if you peal an onion all the way to the center you will find a nodule that looks just like a hard, white clitoris. I don't know if that's true but I do know that the effort it takes to get close to either one of them always makes my eyes water.
By the way, I didn't appreciate the tone of your letter. It had sort of a quivering tone to it, like the distracted, eye-darting humming sound that Don Knotts would make if he were walking through a graveyard. I don't enjoy that tone. I prefer the tone of a zither being gently passed between a large pair of breasts. Maybe it's not a zither I'm thinking of. Either way, your letter-writing would be greatly improved with the addition of Don Knotts humming while his face is being gently passed between a large pair of breasts.
Nonetheless (well, perhaps a little less, although somethemore seems increasingly likely), if you think I'm paying this outrageous bill you are out of your gourd, and I suggest you get back in it immediately. A man of your reputation shouldn't be seen outside of his gourd. People will talk. They'll wonder why you have a gourd in the first place if you're going to spend all your time outside of it, charging exorbitant prices for testicular extractions and scaring the shit out of friendly neighborhood glove salesmen with your bulbous finger that needs to be burped after every meal.
Frankly, I've had enough of your shenanigans so you can keep the rest of them until I start running low and require a few more. Shenanigans remain fresh for months if you store them at between 38 and 45 degrees.
Lucidly incomprehensible, I remain
impenetrably yours,
John Bizarre
Copyright 2008 John Bizarre
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