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.