An open letter to the editor(s) of Pendulous Breasts Quarterly.
Dear Madams,
Oh yes, make no mistake; I do say “Madams,” for you are unfit for the term of “Sirs,” you low-heeled sons of nipples. How droll you must think yourselves, in your New York ivory towers. How vague and wondrous.
I loathe you!
And no, I will not “throw” my “face” in the “garbage,” as you suggest. Obviously I, as a gentleman of some repute, mostly tolerable hygiene, and very fine boudoir-related comportment have underlings to handle the garbage, not to mention my face.
Cock-spurs! You jack-legged uvula-peened clavicle hammers! Shit a monkey off your uncle’s garage and elect it Viceroy! I will read your book in the Devil’s own lap and tap his fiery yambag for emphasis.
Yours (not really),
James C. Hodgson, Jr
Poste Scripte: I seek an officer’s commission on your Frog Team.