Letters between friends

April, 2002

Dearest Friend,

It has been a fortnight since we last corresponded and whilst cleaning my garage I came upon an old shoe box of fond memories past. There were various items within, but one that peaked my interest and guided me to send you this letter via carrier yak. With that said I ask the following question of you my most esteemed and well traveled friend.

It seems I have come upon a quandary and I need the help of an expert to solve a scant dilemma I am now entwined. From my own personal garbage pail collection, answer me, lord of the garbage pail, how can Bony Tony and Unzipped Zach be the same guy?

Your old mate,

Sir Winston Alexander Hamilton George Wheezy Jefferson Otis Hardbone VI

P.S.
I have that waffle iron you wanted back. It’s in the garage. Just come get it whenever.


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June, 2002


Dear PAL,

It has been quite some time Sir Hardbone, but although the Himalayan bouncing ferret has had three menstrual cycles since we last wrote it does not mean you were out of line to do so now. Old friends are like fine wines, they turn bitter and loose their flavor just as you and I have mate.

Anyway, all the "Kids", as I refer to them, are identical twins given up for adoption and raised apart due to their horrible disfigurements. The collection was started when a Doctor Ernie Sullen started chronicling medical afflictions of twins in third world countries. He had such a bounty of specimens and sketches that he decided to market them as children’s trading cards. Hence the different names but matching afflictions. You know your inquiry into this matter has aroused and peaked my interest in the Kids once more! I will now go back to looking for a 456c a rare card "T Bag" the so called Hones Wagner of the garbage pail kids...No more time to diddle about, there’s work to do old mate! If you have any leads let me know old friend.


Truly,

Dr. Duke Buckinald Fenton Archibald Stevens III, Esq.


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October, 2002


Dear Old Chap,

Ah, once again bested by the king of kings, lord of lords of the garbage pail kids. It has been so long, some would say too long, others not long enough, since I have broken out my GPKs, as the better informed call them, and felt the gentle brush of foxy Francis, or Haley's vomit, against my tender nipples. In my glee I forgot the cardinal rule of the GPKs, they're siblings. I bow down to you, hopefully a tongue-lashing is not in order, but if one is, I accept it wholeheartedly, Sundays are best for me. As for your question, about 3 years ago, while attending a convention about exotic dancers who look like the burger king guy, I had overheard a story of a child who had a cousin who heard of this guy's brother, who had herpes, but also his brother-in-law's mailman had once delivered a letter that was thought to be addressed to his neighbor, but came to him instead, that read of an Amazonian explorer who, whilst in the jungles of Africa, had known of a tribe who had seen the elusive 456c GPK known as T-bag, while on a 2B visa visiting the united states for a GPK trade show. I believe I still have that kid's number, and if you play your cards right, and make 17 additional phone calls, and a trip to Africa, you may get to see the elusive 456c, or at least hear a story about it.

By the way, the note you sent me via rabid carrier mongoose made me laugh until my ass slightly jiggled. That humor is why I was proud to donate one of my testicles to you after you lost both of yours in that barn fire.

Whole Heartedly Yours,

Sir Winston Alexander Hamilton George Wheezy Jefferson Otis Hardbone VI


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March, 2003


Dearest Comrade,

As a card holding member of the GPK-Fanclub I would wonder how one could forget the most basic of the GPK's lore. Speaking of tongue lashings old chap, one is most likely due to you, but I haven’t the time nor the energy to administer it at this juncture. Now back to more pressing matters. I was at my Monday massage and happy ending, when I realized that upon reading your note, sent in a bottle stuffed in the ass of a blind messenger bear, I too was dumbfounded by the rareness of the card. I finished my happy ending with a joyous eruption, thanks to your donated testicle mind you; I remembered how I lost that beanbag.

While researching for the Amazonian explorer in the wilds of Africa I overheard two Binti warriors speaking in tribal clicks that they heard from another tribe three rivers up and one dung pile over, that someone intercepted a smoke signal meant for a loved one, she misread a puff and in a jealous rage began ritualistically raping the men of her colony and castrating them. I being one of those men, and hot on the trails of the Amazonian, stumbled into the tent of this woman and in her rage. It consumed me the ramshackle home oozed sexuality just as I do. My passion overtook me and I humped her all night long. She clicked in my ears as I tongued the enormous loops that were left of her earlobes. In my passion and release I did not even notice the loss of both testicles and even the nice gesture to burn the wound as to seal it and not even a trickle of blood. My friend if you do get a chance I beg you to try it, those women are born of Mother Nature herself.

But, I digress, I never found the elusive "T-Bag" card, yet I did get a good tip from the brother of a man who contracted anal warts, who’s half-brother-from-another-mother that was treating a case of herpes, whose mother was in the same doctors office as I, that she once knew a man that had such a card. For the small fee of buying her twenty-seven cats food she would provide me with the address of said man. So I will be venturing forth on my quest to find the elusive 456c! Oh wish me luck chum. I hope you can join me in this adventure and by the by; who is winning the beard and mustache championships this year?

Fully Erect,

Dr. Duke Buckinald Fenton Archibald Stevens III, Esq.

P.S.
Toss out that waffle iron chap. I fried up some Musk Ox testicles on it to make a cologne. You don’t want to use that or even have it in the house. And if the cologne arrives in the mail call poison control, it will burn your flesh.

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June, 2003



To Whom That May Be Aroused,

What glorious stories of testicular slaughter you conveyed! I thought it odd, old chap, that whilst lathering up together in a makeshift lavatory in the middle of the Gobi back in our north African expedition to determine if the Pigmy's penis size is indeed that of the average man despite their African descent, when my eyes accidentally befell on your genital area. I hadn't noticed but a slight horizontal burn line where both sacs once laid, but now only a solo ball now slung, next to an empty skin sac that gravity had tenaciously taken its toll against. The evidence was paltry of your story of a glorious night of bestiality in a barn in the English countryside that was rudely interrupted when the farmer came bout to find you violating not one, not two, but three sheep at once! I had doubted a man could simultaneously violate three at a time, but alas, with a mouth and a hand, I once realized its possibility. I once thought you were tit-over-arse and made up the tale. But I digress. The farmer, when faced with the evidence that all 120 of his flock were indeed violated that very night, decided to burn the lot, and join the priesthood, where sexual encounters are easily encouraged. My friend I must ask, now that I know the story of the loss of your bullocks, did this barn encounter occur?

That being solved, I felt I should disclose the irony of the fact that whilst you were losing both of your goolies I was just two dung piles over from the very spot you were at. I had met this fabulous Mandingo woman, the most prized possession of her tribe due to the fabulously enormous breasts. The breasts were not the reason for her esteem mate, but it was the tremendous sagging of her breasts. They hung to the point that her nipples actually dragged on the hilly terrain. I met her as the dust flew, due to my recent triumph at the World Beard and Mustache Championships in Staffordshire I had the confidence of a well-hung musk ox. She sensed my testosterone peaking and quickly dragged me into a makeshift hut made from straw picked out of elephant droppings. As I had her arse-over-elbow, pleasing her like her tribe mates never could, the tribal chief sneaked into the hut and ceremoniously removed and ate my taint in one fell swoop, for he felt by eating my powerful taint it would enhance his potency. I quickly finished, ran from the hut and smoked the first fag I could get my hands on. Then placed the fag on my now taintless taint to stop the bleeding, and went back to ravage that fabulous Mandingo once again.

Sincerely,

Sir Winston Alexander Hamilton George Wheezy Jefferson Otis Hardbone VI

P.S.
I thank you for the waffle iron information, but alas it was too late. I have had quite the week at the intensive care unit for my intestinal problems after having cooked up some chicken tenders on previously stated tainted waffle iron. One good thing is that my tapeworm finally lost it’s death grip and I am eating for one again after twenty-two years!

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November, 2003


Dear Hardbone,

Oh you truly are rich old mate! To wit! Such a caper as the one you unfolded on my monocle-clad eye did strike a memory in my old noggin.

Tis true of the barn fiasco, but that was merely the first instance I lost my god given sperm producers. Twas true I was doing research for a Novel I penned at the time that went on to be an underground smash titled "Every Sexual Experience Out There and How to Pull Them Off." Under my pen name Archbishop Winston Theodore Bunsun Wrathchild Tildon Spinestien, MCXII.

That night I was performing an orchestrated 3-way with those animals consisting of a rusty-trombone, Dirty Comanche, and the ever popular Salty Pirate. In my haste I lost control of my performance and accidentally gave my furry lover an Angry dragon and this is what alerted the Farmer. The rest is all true. I did finish the novel and was shunned by the regular blokes that don't indulge in beastiality, yet I could not find sturdy enough women to uphold to me rigorous work ethics. Although some Samoan women will suffice in a pinch.

So having lost my man bags in that old barn and all my research animals gone I went to Africa, and a short trip to the Mustache and Beard Championships, where I did place second due to a minor mishap that turned my Fu-man-chu into a goatee ironically. I could have told the judge to sod off if I had the mind to, yet you won fair and square mate. Where was I...yes, I went Africa for the GPK card and a new set of testis. The fertile lands there are home to the Musk Ox who's scent will drive a woman mad with lust as you experienced and I do envy, for after hunting the beast and having his large bulbous eggs implanted I only had them for one night when they were lost again. If you will note the ramblings of my previous letters sent via carrier animal of some sort.

Old chap the stories we have shared are quite an adventure and if not for the pigmy stenographer, who does have a rather large member as do all their kind (as we found out) that I employ we would never remember do to the amount of sangria and special Gobi herbs we smoke to take away the pain of our loss of various body parts. We shall have to enjoy another piss in a makeshift hut sometime in the coming months or better yet a rousing game of battleshits is in order! Yes! To wit! I have enclosed five dollars for you to play power ball for me. I will send the numbers later via carrier calico kitten.

Thusly,

Dr. Duke Buckinald Fenton Archibald Stevens III, Esq.

Dick Cheney Recharged On Campaign Trail

Vice President Dick Cheney was on the campaign trail stumping for republicans during the build up to midterm elections when he was seen losing his vigor and power earlier this month. Sweeping across the bible belt delivering his encouraging speeches about Americas greatness due to him and the republicans was taking it's toll on him. He sent out an uplifting message of peace and economic prosperity for himself and his fellow multimillionaires to a crowd of spectators that seemed very well fed, yet lacked good dental hygiene. Cheney reminded us we are at war with ruthless killers that never rest, but it seems he is the sort of ruthless killer that does need a good rest now and then. Some staffers mentioned taking Cheney to an undisclosed location to allow him to recharge before heading to the battleground state of Ohio. With the energy built up from a appearance in Tennessee wearing off they decided to recharge the Vice President on the road.

An all black eighteen wheeler, with no markings pulled along side the motorcade. Some ramps lowered from the rear and Mr. Cheney's Suburban drove up into the attached trailer. I asked some volunteers what the Vice President was doing in the trailer and they simply stated "recharging". Further investigations proved that he was indeed recharging inside the vehicle. This was a mobile undisclosed location unit outfitted with a special charging machine designed for Dick Cheney only.

Inside the trailer hummed the electronic beast that powers Cheney and keeps him fully charged for thirty days to follow the cycle of the moon. The White House Official Portable Power plant and Emergency Recharger supercomputer also known as W.H.O.P.P.E.R. is what fuels the dedicated man. This intimidating green hunk of engineering blinked with several lights and diodes on its terminal as it sits on a twelve foot by six foot base.

I could see through the porthole on the unit Mr. Cheney was naked, connected at his neck and anus to thick power supply cables, and suspended in a deep red liquid. "The liquid is a mixture of cherry kool-aid and blood. This keeps his sugar levels right and his cravings for blood to a minimum while out in public." stated a campaign worker. When asked why the man would need to be submerged in such a mixture she flatly replied, "The Vice President is half vampire and half machine." She then went on transferring names to a criminal database from a list of registered Democrats. A man in a white lab coat and thick round glasses told me this startling fact "Several heart attacks and hundreds of blood donors later we got the right blood. It's not like the movies, sure he is immortal, but his body has taken a beating so we add new parts on. That's where the robotic parts come from." I was shocked at this and wanted to know which blood keeps him up and running full of hate and contempt. "We narrowed it down to African blood from children under eight years of age. We have to secure the blood for him because of his hectic schedule and the tears of humans will make his skin boil and rot. Also the sound of a child's laughter sends him into a rage."

After three hours in the W.H.O.P.P.E.R. scientist say he is ready for another round of fear mongering, gay bashing, and sending his heartfelt message of bigotry and hatred across our glorious nation, that is at war.

I was puzzled about a lot of things that were easily answered by Tony Snow at a White House briefing later in the day. "Vice President Cheney is a hybrid human being and a 'day-walker' if you will, that's why he doesn't burn up in the sunlight like Condoleezza Rice." answered the mouthpiece as another reporter asked, "Is it true he also has AIDS, sickle cell anemia, and craves women with large round apple shaped bottoms because of the African blood coursing his veins?" Snow raised an eyebrow and offered "The vice president does have sickle cell anemia and full blown AIDS, but not like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia. More like Magic Johnson's aids, you know the happy kind. As far as 'apple bottoms' as you put it, that's absurd all men naturally crave them."

Sweating in my brown four piece suit I asked, "Is there any truth to the rumor Mr. Cheney is a zombie? It is noted he regularly eats human brains, aged thirteen years." Mr. Snow fired back, "That's a silly question. Vice President Dick Cheney likes to eat healthy and human brains provide a lot of protein and calcium for a man his age. Besides, he is half vampire half cyborg not a zombie. Honestly, if the questions are not going to be serious then the press conference is over for now." I let out a relieved sigh and left the press room.

Story submitted by Robert "Bob" McHenry reporting from
the campaign trail just before he crashed his Cutlass Supreme
into a tree, spilling his coffee and killing him.

A letter to my old love, Clarice...

Baby, I love you, but...

I know your are a sassy hot headed gal that grew up in a bad section of town and that you can mouth off now and again, I love when you yell and your nose is all squished up. Baby, I love you. You don't take disrespect and I stand in adoration of your firecracker mentality. Never doubt how much I cherish moments to defend your honor. You are my life, my world, the sun revolves around you baby, and I delight in your presence. You are my God. I worship you and your pussy is my Garden of Eden. Your clitoris my forbidden fruit, I love to savor that fruit. I want to be the vegetarian of your vagina. I would carve your name into my arm with a pencil to show you my love, my love.

I am in adulation of you even when a girl at the bar bumped into you spilling red bull and vodka on your Steve Madden pumps. I know you wanted the entire bar to hear you explain how this tart had ruined your lovely shoes and your feet. I love your feet they are so delicate and soft like an orphan's skull, I lust for them even splashed with a energy boosting beverage. And even as her large male companion asked you to calm down and you didn't, I knew that fire in your eyes is what attracted me to you. He needed to know his woman was not of fine standing. Just because he was an ultimate fighting champion doesn't mean he shouldn't know. I am sure the wine you splashed in his face proved your point, oh how you relish wine, but not as much as I relish you. So what if he called you a slut, he doesn't know you only had sixteen other partners last year, one being a woman. I love that you are so exclusive and all mine. I love how you always prove your point, you never give up, your tenacity is only second to my madness for you.

He lifts me off the ground with a well placed punch to my sternum, my body is yours to rapture as he ruptures my liver, I love you. The hip replacement actually helps me make love to you more tenderly, God I want to fuck you. You telling him he is in big trouble as my facial bones crush into my eyes isn't helping, but means I yearn for you no less. The body cast he puts me in only proves to make me want you more. A paper mache barrier that can't hold back my deepest emotions, of love. It was right of you to take him out to dinner so he could apologize. I know you were probably deep in discussion of our affection at three in the morning when I tried to get ahold of you. It's nice that he still calls and comes over late when I am not there, but know I wish I was there my buttercup.

Or the time at a movies when some rather joyous colored persons were making some poignant observations about a woman going into a room they obviously knew was a bad idea. You always consider others, so selfless that's why you shushed them. I know you and other patrons needed to hear the movie, but I could follow it. My eardrums are honed with the powers of love, love for you. As they descended the staircase and you said I didn't appreciate their loud mouths, I thought of kissing yours. Her beautifully airbrushed nails, like tiny portraits, that put severe gashes on my cheeks and sent you to go retrieve a manager made me want to paint a picture of you nude. You look so good naked. He was a teenager and not ready for what he saw, my eye dangling by a thin string of optical nerve. It's OK baby, you had the best intentions. I was given two eyes for a reason, to give one up for my passion for you. Thanks for getting the junior mints while you were out there pumpkin. I love you more than depth perception. You always did like chocolates.

There is thirty-five stitches in my head, but there wouldn't be enough thread to stitch up my broken heart if you were not with me, I love you. Baby, losing my testicles to that woman's high heel is fine with me because I know you didn't want kids anyway. You are the boss and I am devoted to you, baby. That woman had no right to take that parking spot anyway and her viewpoint on abortion plastered all over her car in bumper-stickers did need pointing out it was wrong. Funny how those types carry guns, the bullets in my abdomen are a testament to everlasting love. A love that lingers on like when you are the last to leave a cocktail party. Baby my love is like a cockroach after the apocalypse it will never die. I love you sweetness, but for the sake of my last kidney please stop getting my ass beat.

Your loving boyfriend,
Buckinald Stevens III, Esq

Area Man Charged With Filing False Police Report.

Shinebone, Alabama -- Christopher Lamb, was arrested for filing a false police report stating he was beaten in the parking lot of Hooters, a dining establishment best known for its scantily clad waiting staff and savory spicy wings. Christopher was behind the eatery when he was allegedly assaulted by and unknown assailant. While seated in his Ford Festiva, balancing his checkbook, the transgressor reached through the open window and beat him about his genitals. "In long hard strokes. He really roughed me up good. He was a pro, cupping my scrotum and not using too much pressure on the shaft." he stated flatly. "I was balancing my checkbook when these powerful hands came in and accosted my private area. He might have been frightened by the size of it, put that in there, in your report." He told Detective Jimmy Shootsblacks. When asked if he saw any witnesses Mr. Lamb replied "I didn't see anyone, or even Angie who gets off at 11 p.m. and comes out to smoke at 10:12 every night, nice gal. She said I was a 'sweetheart' and that she said 'I am her nicest customer', but I didn't see her or anything." His hands shuffling in his front pockets adding, "Did she mention me? How I was doing? Anything at all?"

The area was in plain sight of where some waitresses say they take their smoking breaks from the fire exit door, behind the building they could see the car clearly and did not witness any persons other than Chris. "He was shuffling around in there, I didn't look real hard he's always out there." Said Angie Wyatt, she then went to deliver some delicious spicy hot wings oozing with flavor and a side of blue cheese dressing.

The man claimed to have just been beaten when some patrons saw him sweaty and frantic in his car. Wiping sticky delicious BBQ sauce from his face a witness stated that he and his lady friend were on their way out to their car when they saw the man struggling. "Yeah, he was having a fit or something, eyes rolled back into his head and teeth showing" said the lady friend as she snapped her gum and adjusted the drawstring on her stone washed jeans. "He looked shocked when he saw us and started yelling about an attacker that ran off into the woods." The patron said through his tobacco chewing. "Seem kinda funny if ya ask me."

Police were tipped off at the false claim when Christopher gave the description of a man in his mid thirties, Caucasian, brown hair, wearing khaki dockers and a members only jacket, a mole on his left cheek and a tattoo of a snake on his right arm. Virtually describing himself, a sketch artist picture further proved the point.

Police Chief Ralph Wiggum stated "There was some chaffing on his genital shaft and a little Victoria's Secret Garden Romantic lotion, but no signs of struggle. We found it odd that an attacker would only assault his bathing suit area and then not even take any money. No checkbook was found in the car." Investigators are calling the vehicle a "makeshift apartment" and think the suspect was making the scenario up. "We are investigating further based on some new DNA evidence found in the parking lot, in the Festiva, on Mr. Lamb's jeans, in the air conditioning vents, and covering a good portion of the dashboard." The chief did not answer any questions about the bowling ball sized stains, stating "It's not looking good for Mr. Lamb right now. We are going to piece this together and find out just what really happened." he then left the room.

Buckinald Stevens Esq. III, East coast Bureau

Serial Killer Reflecting On Choices In His Life

Mediocre serial killer Al Hines recently revealed that he may have come to a turning point in his life. Telling Guns 'n' Necrophilia magazine, "I need to stop wasting time and get things moving" Al, a native American Indian, is suspected in the killings of three families over a four year period. The victims where beaten with a blunt object and the children propped against a wall to be an audience for the killers deviant sex acts. Shards from nearby mirrors where placed in the eyes of the dead women when he fornicated with them. The husbands head (severed) was placed nearby to be a spectator also. His hair thinning and pursing a bottle of miller lite to his embarrassingly shabby pencil mustachioed lip, he told me his troubles.

Having intercourse one night Al reminisces "While looking into the shards of glass jammed into her eye sockets I didn't like the reflection I saw looking back at me through the puss, tears, and blood." Further adding "normally my blood soaked body glistening in the moonlight would give me pleasure allowing me to ejaculate into the corpse, but this was different. I tried fucking her eye socket, but the friction was not right. I was frustrated and attempted her nostril and after severely tearing the area I couldn't maintain my erection". He then shyly turned away and looked down at his handmade moccasins.

The real problem wasn't the less than desired friction provided by puss and eye juices but merely Al himself. He was thirty, unmarried, working a dead end job for a grocery store, and living in his fathers shed. He sought a hobby to make the mundane work days pass quicker and remove the pang of a boring existence. "Sneaking into houses, bludgeoning, getting rock hard abs, and necrophilia I am good at, damn good, but I can't make a living at it. It's just a hobby." He tamped out a cigarette. "It was like I saw my failures in that reflection. The severed head on the dresser, possibly the cunt's husband, seemed to have a smirk like he knew I was a failure at life. I had to shove his severed penis in his mouth to drown out the laughter."

"I'm thirty now and think, where's my life gone? I could have been better, why didn't I pay attention in school. My dad would tell me it was either the military or college as he sodomized me. I went to community college to get him off my back, no pun intended, but I wasn't serious. If I only knew then what I do now." He mused. "Why couldn't my parents have been wealthy so that I could follow my dreams. So many kids just get to do what they want and I am forced to work a menial job day in and day out. I have real talent and they just are lucky. I might go back to school and finish my associates degree." The murderous man noted.

Al was three credits short of the liberal arts degree he worked eight years trying to achieve. His co-workers always told him he had talent and he was wasting it there at the grocery store, but the Union wages were good and he got two fifteen minute breaks and a half hour lunch. Jan Quigly, a dairy department employee offered, "If the guys got a dream he should pursue it, just quit it's that easy. I mean, you should learn from your mistakes. Life is too short." then he carefully sliced a sesame seed bagel so as to not cut a finger.

"I know my friends mean well, but its not that easy. I can't just quit my job at the grocery store, I have bills to pay. If I save up enough to pay off my camero then I can live off whats left. It might take a year or so, but I can try to make a name for myself doing what I love. Murdering families and then fucking their dead bodies. I know I am no Gacy or Dahmer, but I can try."

His demeanor frightened me. Never before had I witnessed such a brazen display. The fire burning in his black as coal eyes was terrifying, yet astonishing. This man was committed to doing something great and I know he would succeed. I hope he inspires others to achieve their own goals. I know I will be taking a course on basket weaving. A craft I gave up years ago and have wanted to attempt again someday.

That someday will be today.

Special report by Forensic Gynecologist and Relationship Specialist
Dr. Giet Heir Don, III. with contributions from Motivational Speaker
and House Scrabble Champion Peter Brackish.