Once in a while, you're presented with a Gordian Knot of a problem that just can't be unpicked even by my slender, delightfully proportioned and perfectly manicured fingers. Problems where Alexander's solution of taking an exceedingly sharp blade to all those concerned may be the best way forward. But I don't normally approve of beheadings so I wracked my brain for an alternative and "eureka"...
"What if I get the assorted saddos who read my column to answer the saddo letters."
Brilliant, hey!!!
Maybe not as brilliant as Vanilla Ice's legendary Top of the Pops performance of 'Ice, Ice, Baby' on 6 December 1990 (when a certain young lady had some very wet panties indeed), but definitely more brilliant than MC Hammer's video for 'Can't Touch This' with its cunt soaking, tight lycra shorts and hareem pants. Olden days people go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on about The Beatles and The Stones, but it's only 'cause they never experienced the bass thumping, pussy pumping, hormonal bliss that were Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer.
*sighs*
*hums*
"Cunt touch bliss... Nice, rice baby... Cunt much kiss... Sugar, spice baby".
So I seem to have a little bit of a plumbing problem; a leaky faucet methinks. I'm just going to go and attend to it whilst you have a read of the letters. Be right back.
Dear Cum Thief
Thank you for arranging the publication of my poem 'The Ungrateful Valentine'. I can't help but notice that my name is notable by its absence. In fact, the only change I can identify from the version I sent to you is the appearance of your name in giant sparkly letters where my name should appear. I believe that you have crossed the Rubicon between good, honest, totally acceptable, everyday plagiarism and deceitful, criminally pursuable theft. No doubt you will do the same thing with this letter; publish it, claim it as yours, and pass it off as some form of creative brilliance. If my current situation didn't severely limit my opportunities I would ensure that you are exposed to the world for the fraud you are. Be warned.
Despite that, I find I am in need of your assistance once more. I had hoped that exposing my current circumstances via the poem, by emphasizing the continuous and unwarranted attentions I am still enduring from my ex-husband, might compel the authorities or some interfering busybody to bring an end to my suffering. I was also hopeful that once the commercial nonsense surrounding St Valentine's Day had passed I might be left to rest in peace. Wasn't that enough? The flowers, the chocolates, the teddy bear were bone sickeningly awful, but the hugging and kissing were just too weird for words.
Unfortunately, things have got worse and I really am at my wit's end as to know what to do about it. The day after Valentine's my ex turned up with a shovel and removed all the turf from atop my resting place leaving only exposed earth. Now that was bad enough as it has made my temporary home cold and drafty and given me a chill in my bones. But there is worse. Oh yes, much worse. He now comes to my graveside each and every night, removes all his clothing, lays face down above me, grinds his way into the earth and starts ... well I can only really describe it as hump fucking the soil above me. Each night he burrows a little further down. I'm sure that last night I felt cum dripping onto my pelvic bone. I dread to think what another week of this behaviour will bring. I could spell it out, but I think we all can see where this is going. And he wasn't even a good fuck when I was alive, hence my multiple affairs.
