hows come you never call? you're mama's worried about you and you're kids almost two and wants a daddy. I think the mailman is laughing at us when he brings back the letters we sent you, all "return to sender" and all. I wanna smack him upside the head. Why won't you come home? Please rite back!
We still love you! We just want ou're money back!
I've absolutely no idea where that doting, mentally unhinged, raving dithyrambic came from but I can, with all certainty, affirm what my readers already know; it is nothing more than the unstable, hysterically sensational delusions of a clinically depressed groupie. It is true that I've bedded more than my fair share of the gentler sex, still, I must predicate that, though the vast, seething throng of temerariously licentious love vixens knows no sleep; I only christen the most beauteous, delicate and nimble-witted of my flock with a blessing of fertile seed from my mighty passion scepter.
Not only are there practical time related limitations to this sort of activity, but also the fact that personages of your stock, breed and social caste give me a rash. So I'm sure my readers will understand that, though I may lead them to my love nest three at a time, the chances of you making it past the front gate are infinitly less than nil.
Due to the immense volume of "poontang" (as Mr. ToasterLeavings like to call it) that passes between my silken sheets and also due to the near herculean potency of my seed, it would be no surprize to me at all to find that I had progenated a small country's worth of rug rats. Had you ever actually been invited into my tropical love lair, you would know that this is precicely why all of my brief yet passionate fests of fescennine whoredom are preceeded by the unceremonious signing of an imposing stack of various legal waivers.
My lawyer and manservant, Mr. ToasterLeavings, as I have no doubt previously mentioned, moonlights as a ruthless assasin for hire and his obsequious adoration for me is para-psychotic. Not that I am intoning anything by mentioning that, but it's interesting enough to note that most litigations against me never actually see their day in court. Concider yourself warned.
Please, never mention my blessed and saintly mother ever again; especially in the middle of a filthy lie concerning a non-existant set of her grandchildren. She reads this column faithfully you know.
Your gripe with the U.S. postal service could not possibly concern me less. It is unpatriotic demons like you that keep my taxes so ungodly high.
Advice I must dispense, even to repugnant liars. The only help for you lies in the festering bowels of a sanitorium. I suggest you commit yourself and let them gently rehabilitate you with mind numbing drugs and thereputic stints of shock therapy. If they can make you well, please feel free to not write me to inform me; nor in any way should you attempt to contact me ever again. I have been scarred enough by this brief encounter with you and you are no doubt far too empovershed to afford compensate me for the countless hours of psychological and spiritual cleansing that I must now spend at the Lieberman Clinic and Spa.
May you rot in hell.
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