Monday, November 05, 2007



Dear G-Hole, I’d like to address the salient points of your recent communiqué:

“You've always been a true friend to me…”
Actually, I’ve ratted you out to the Thought Police on more than one occasion, and I’ve sent newspaper clippings of all your public disgraces to your mother, which probably explains why you’ve been disowned. Just be thankful that I didn’t deposit a Coke bottle up your corn hole that time you passed out in my living room, in a gigantic puddle of your own aromatic chuck-up.

“… and you’ve always said you'd take a bullet for me.”
Dream on, you reprobate. I said I’d LOAN you a bullet, and I'd be happy to get back the spent cartridge.

“A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that.”
I can only assume this is an allusion to my alleged skills as a professional scribbler. If it’s an allusion to backdoor boogie, you can go and shag yourself with a Howizter, you degenerate, steaming pile of loose moose flop.

“And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways.”
Surely the understatement of the Millennium. By comparison, that Biblical sod Job was on a holiday to Brighton.

“So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company.”
Don’t tell me you’ve taken a hit of acid? You’re dangerous enough when sober. As for fooking up my marriage, how could it possibly have been more fooked up than it was, long before I had the misfortune to have met you? And for your information, I was NOT fired from the production company, I OWNED the fooking production company. I resigned, in protest, because of the abominable mis-management and wayward hoeing.

“Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.”
Au contraire, melon balls, I knew you were there all along, and took great delight in the knowledge that your genitals had turned to icicles. Why do you think I kept raiding the fridge every five minutes?

“If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.”
Another sterling example of the punishment fitting the crime. As for the defunct drifter, I have forwarded a copy of your confession to the FBI, Einstein.

“O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everything that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone.”
Me, feel sorry for you? It is to laugh. If you like, I’ll Fed-Ex that bullet to you. Just say the word. And as for the alleged charges to my bank account, from what I still remember of Math 101, something from nothing still equals nothing, putz face.

“And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.”
I would no more initiate a search for your sorry ass than I would hire Sherlock Holmes to track down one of my spent turds. But, if you so much as look cross-eyed at that puppy, I’ll have the Pinkertons on your trail so fast it’ll make your MicroSoft Freddy spin like a fookindreedle.

“Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.”
Actually, you’ve done me a favor (at long last). I’ve been trying to dump those tartlettes for ages. I only hope they believed you.

“So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.”
You can’t threaten a drowning man with rumors of an impending flood, you plank. If I were you, I’d worry about the shit tsunami coming YOUR way.

“PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?”
True. You have far exceeded my expectorations, you flaming berk. Zut alors! Once again, I, the auld Buff have proven that in a contest between intellectual Titans and poorly educated pissants, the pissants go tits up every time. Better luck next time, Pie Hole! Ta-ra, jerk-berk!

1 comment:

Nonnie Augustine said...

Wow! I wish I could talk like that! I mean, even when I'm angry, I sound polite. It's a curse, it is. Funny, Buff. xxoononnie