Oh, how I foreswearingly do miss the beaky mandibles which once chewed through the drossage of boringly fuckwadded textual crapulum which has overtaken my formerly unstained and virginic base of pwned data. Alasingly, how I have been blocked securely in the cock by the mundane angsty logs of days and poetic leavings much like the dung of rodents long lost to the endangered species programme begun by both your heads of statehood as well as my own. But who gives a right whale about the demise of some particular shape of protoplastic when the true loss is the sound of drooling laughter emitting from my own wrinkled and aging gobhole?

My daughter was over the other night and your name came up amid conversations about the various shapes of fecal leavings. Being unaware of your houvre, I charged her with an outloud reading of your woeful tale of teen lust and hormones gone Snooki. It left us both with that sort of universalty feeling of love gone not exactly wrong, but sour and smelling like the unplugged refrigerator of some cannibal king in one of those nature channel countries where they have learned electricity but not manners.

I shall ne'er laugh again, my chinnish knight, until we meet in a purgetorium where you are charged like an Apple product (except with a much more elaborate and pronginated cord) to either entertain me or else face the eternal company of the current "most talkative" list alive and in person around a very small table with the most uncomfortable second grade chairs ever built by King June Nail's starvinated but grass-fed and hormone-free forced labor; without so much as a smoke break, forfuckingever.

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