Friday, February 15, 2008
Worms in his hair and a hand so sturdy
Dear Landon,
You are one lazy fucker. Do you realize that? Lazy piece of shit. Took you long enough to fucking write back.
It's good to hear that your Christmas and holidays were pleasant. Mine was decent. My concubines arrived a bit late. Not to worry, though. I had the delivery guy's hands pierced with arrows. I do not tolerate tardiness, unless it is my own. You know I hate getting to places early. We both do. Anyway, the concubines got here via airmail, duct taped inside cardboard boxes just like I asked. One didn't make it, but that's okay. "Filtering of the weak" is what I call it. If you can't survive being trapped in a box for a week and sent through the postal service, then you won't survive as my concubine. In fact, I even set up an American Gladiators style gauntlet outside for their forced recreation. To be honest, I'm really just prepping them for next month. For my birthday, that is. I'm going to build an exact replica of Thunderdome and make them battle in it. I have even hired a huge retard and a midget to impersonate Master Blaster. It's gonna be fucking rad.
What was I talking about before? Oh right. Christmas. I think somebody mentioned to me in December that I should set up some fully lit Christmas trees around the slave quarters to boost morale (not that it really matters, I mean, they're fucking slaves). I figured "what the hell", so I surrounded their homes with tall pine trees and set them all on fire on Christmas Eve. Long story short: they didn't sleep well that night.
Speaking of sleep, I've got to tell you about this dream I had the other night. I was hosting some crazy party on a huge boat in international waters. The guests were all unhealthy aristocrats and hard-heeled snobs with blood on their hands. I fed everyone seafood. Apparently some of the food had gone bad, so I fed it to the slaves who were catering the party. If I remember correctly, it was the putrescent shellfish that drove the slaves mad and caused them to throw everyone overboard and take off with the ship. There was only one lifeboat, which I quickly acquired as soon as I saw the deadening glare from the the first slave coming up from the lower levels. I'm no fool. I know a crazy person when I see one. We can sense our own. So then I'm floating adrift in this lifeboat with a massive collection of bourgeois pigs clawing at my hull for salvation. Lucky for me, I was carrying a machete. I started hacking at any fingers that came even close to my boat. I spent the better part of a day just cutting off long, slender fingers with too much gold and diamonds on them. I collected them. I spent the night listening to the tortured screams of the mutilated as they doggy paddled in pain and the salt water entered their wounds. Eventually the sharks showed up and carried off the lot of them. So I started rowing. Got bored of that. Cut off a few of my own fingers with the machete. The pain kept me occupied for another day. I wrapped the wounds up in a piece of cloth I had torn off my shirt. Whenever I would get bored, I would swiftly karate-chop the wound. Like I said, the pain kept me occupied. Eventually I was picked up by what seemed to be George-Michael Bluth from Arrested Development riding around in the Bluth Company yacht. [I just finished watching all three seasons. That show is fucking great.] Of course, I had also already stabbed out an eye by then. So a piece of cloth was wrapped around my head as well. George-Michael seemed pretty shocked to find me floating along with terrible wounds and a pile of severed fingers in my boat. I made up a story about how I was a pirate and the only hidden treasure left in the world was carried upon the fingers of the rich. Such bullshit. I don't know what's wrong me. I'm not too sure of how the dream ended, but I think it had something to do with me knocking out George-Michael with chloroform and speeding back to California to bone his cousin Maeby. But that was just a dream. THAT WAS JUST A DREAM. THAT'S ME IN THE CORNER. THAT'S ME IN THE SPOT LIGHT, LOSING MY RELIGION. <---- that's a good song.
I woke up underneath my bed with all my fingers still attached. I've been sleeping under my own bed lately. I don't know why.
But yeah, the reason I tell you about the dream is because of how ridiculous it is. For one thing, why the fuck would I throw a party for a bunch of rich prick bastards and bitches? And if I ever did, it would only be so that I could toss those fuckers overboard. Or I'd sink the boat while the slaves and I scurried off in a submarine.
I like that word. "Scurry". Reminds me of small dogs and fluffy rodents.
And why the fuck would I serve seafood? Fuck being on the ocean. I HATE SEAFOOD.
But I've written enough. Time for my midnight peanut butter and jam session. Fuck you. I know you do it as well. And I know you call it that too.
Write back soon.
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can you sever my fingers too?
I'd like that very much.