Frustrations

To the fictional opponent of my imagining:

It was once said that the caliber of a man can be measured by the size of his hat. If this bit of Victorian wisdom were applied to the real world, you sir would be wearing an ant-sized fez firmly lodged up your ass, where invariably your head resides. If I were to pass you on the street I would not spit in your direction, but only because my spit is more valuable to me than your existence. I once made a mixed alcoholic beverage and named it in your honor, it was made entirely of cheap whiskey, vermouth and dog shit. Rather than serving this to even my worst enemy, I ran it through the garbage disposal and thought lovingly of you.

Frankly sir, I am tired of your entire existence and would like to list a few of your finer traits before I say goodbye. I abhor your picassoesque nose, your beady eyes, your too-strange-for-words feet, the way you lisp your "eshes", your shy but off-putting nature which lumps you in with only the highest order of serial killer suspects, your flippant yet kind wastrel tendencies, your excess of sentimentality plastered on the moral character of a syphilitic dog, the shambling words which make up your mindless speech, and, of course, the way you wear your hat.

If sir, you feel that this correspondence somehow mis-characterizes your finer traits (as if these things were truly in existence), I challenge you to respond in kind with whatever sub-coherent speech or pictogram that your underdeveloped mind can conjure up.

Sincerely yours,
William R. Fennimore-Cooper Cobblesmith Esq.