You left something at my house that I would like to return to you. Yes, I know it has been over six years, but I believe you may want this item. To be truthful, I want it the feck out of my house. But, I suppose since I am contacting you about it, I owe you an explanation as to why I haven’t contacted you sooner.
It’s simple really. You have a heart like a plate full of castor beans and rice! Most botanists will tell you that an adult human would be killed simply upon eating one castor bean. Yet, you continue to serve those around you an entire all-you-can-eat buffet of death. I don’t know why you do this, but I suppose much like the lethal oleander, you must find yourself cute.
Well, you’re not cute. That’s why I used to call you “hairy culottes” to my friends.
Yes, you remember culottes, the hideous pant/ shorts made popular by French dandies! (Today they are mostly shorts for obese women.) You know what I’m talking about! Don’t play stupid! Well, I think you should know where this is going at the very least. You see, I am bordering on hairless (thank god!) like an Irish mole-rat (it’s one of my finer qualities), but you are hairier than an Italian woman in a gorilla costume. The truth is, whenever you had those legs of yours waxed the end result, on the rest of your body, was hairy culottes! A torso-concealing-wrestling-suit made out of your remaining hair! I once thought if we were ever caught making love that someone might call out, “Why is that woman humping a full blown SASQUATCH!” And yet, I endured you. I endured you because my heart was full. It was very full and brimming before you made it rain castor-killing beans all over my hair-free parade.
I think you always knew. You always knew that you’d let yourself love me and that you’d make me fall in love with you in return, but that at one point you’d end it. “End it” is not even the right turn of phrase. “End it” suggests maturity and strength of character. You’re more of a runner. You’d run in the end because you didn’t want to disappoint your family and what could be more disappointing than a gay? I mean the horror! It would mean you’d have to stick up for yourself! You’d have to tell your whole family – the only Jews in New Zealand – to close down the Hebrew school that your father started because of the scandal! A gay??! A gay? A GAY JEW?! No, no, no, it’s bad enough you’re an artist, but you can’t let your family also accept you as a gay. You’ll have to just suck it up, as many woman have since the beginning of time, and you’ll have to marry a man. Why not? Virginia Woolf did it, after all, and Eleanor Roosevelt. Why not you?
What is it that they call you folks in New Zealand? Wait, it’s the Kiwi, isn’t it? I’m sure your country is a beautiful one – although I’d never know because you were too embarrassed to have me meet any of your family – and I have no idea if the Kiwi nickname is meant in a derogatory fashion or not. Regardless, I can not stop thinking about the Kiwi. Yes, the Kiwi. I often plunge them into my juicer these days. Sometimes one at a time. Sometimes two and three at a time. Squish! Squish! Squish! The feeling I get from making juice every morning – well – it’s completely cathartic. I’ve even learned something about the Kiwi, in fact. It’s the only fruit I don’t have to peel before I plunge it to its death in the juicer. You can leave its skin right on. It likes to hold on to that skin. It holds on to that skin for dear life. It likes to take that second skin to the grave…
…KIND OF LIKE YOU. YOU AND YOUR SECOND, KIWI, SKIN COVERING UP THE HUGE GAY YOU ARE INSIDE. YOU, USING THAT SKIN TO SHOW STRAIGHT TO THE WORLD WHEN REALLY DOWN UNDER, IT’S NOTHING, BUT SQUISHY, GREEN, GAY, GAY, FAGGOTY, GAY, FULL-ON, FRUIT THAT YOU ARE!!! It’s a sham, a travesty, but thankfully…
It is now also some other poor feck’s problem.
For we -you and I- are no longer.
So, I’d like to give you back your sock. It’s a single sock that you left at my house over six years ago…on our last night together. I don’t know where the other one has gone. But, I do know that it’s made out of that peruvian wool that you like so much and I’m sure they were expensive and made by the hands of some suffering child up in the Himalayas. I’m sure this sock is all of those things because you were always such a pretentious a**hole! Therefore, I want to give you your precious thing back, so you can kill it. I’ve already tried. I used it to clean the dog’s anus hole after she had a touch of doggie dysentery. I knew the soft wool would do the job right. Of course, I rinsed it out after. Then I shoved it in a ziploc bag along with this note to mail to you.
Hope you are well and that you’ve found a team of people to help you manage your hair issue.
Note: There’s a great new post over at Canadica by the wonderful “He Who.” It’s all about the difference between American and Canadian casinos and I found it to be a fascinating read. Give it a looksy and help keep Canadica alive!
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