You Scurrilous Traitor,
Congratulations on your new found splendor in the upstairs basket of floral arrangements and sugar highs.
I, on the other hand, have reached the pit of doldrums. This contagion has finally zapped my usual feelings of joyous exuberance into a sad decay of indifference. I would hope the smell of the Sultan’s freshly minted Franklins or the delicacy of free range fruit would lift me from my acrimonious situation, but I don’t have that option.
The downstairs hen house rarely refreshes the tea pot, scanners screech even louder than the boisterous news desk lady, even Private Bubbly can’t cast aside my bouts of moping.
Hopefully, as you gorge your gullet with the sultan’s saccharine, and become a stinking pile of excrement, I might find a modicum of delight in your grotesque physique.
Until then I shall walk aimlessly and dream of the days that were. Until next time my minuscule marmot, stay hydrated and I hope you run out of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.
Left eye Daquano
Post Script: Give my regards to the Oaf.