So that's what hate mail looks like. Another one to tick off my bucket list. To be honest I'm fairly certain that many of the kind suggestions I've received are physical impossibilities and I probably ought to clarify that I don't live in a zoo. Additionally I have checked with Mum regarding the accusation that I am the bastard offspring of Eva Braun and Lucretia Borgia and she assures me that she's never been to either Berlin or Florence. So ya boo sucks *pokes out tongue*.
All that fuss over a small piece of meat and a steak tenderiser. Really. As for the endlessly repeated suggestion that I am a man hater, well that is utter pish and nonsense. There is only one man I hate, and if you woke each morning next to his porcine snuffling, grunting and God awful scratching I'm sure you'd hate him too.
Thankfully this week's letter is from a small, insignificant piece of punctuation (bet you didn't see that cumming) and I've already girded my loins in anticipation of all the 'Grammer Nazis' complaints. So without any further ado:
Dear Cum,
Please, please help. I am at my wit's end, and you're my last hope, in fact, my only hope.
You may recall how I was once so rudely used, or is that abused by the gothic nerd and pushed, stuffed, rubbed in that fucking smelly hole that masquerades as her vagina - she calls it her snatch these days. Well, I can tell you it does snatch and then never lets you out!
Due to the continued lockdown and this working from home shit, her gothic nerd-ness has taken to a quick afternoon interlude. It would have been a tea break at the office, but now it's a cum break – like to know how that goes after next month!
Yes, she tried other punctuation, the tilde, the question mark, and even some letters (the ‘y’ being the best apparently) but she always came back to me. I blame that fucking bread knife for cutting her fingers that time.
The use of me in her written work has also fallen to new depths. Before I was used occasionally then added after the fact, now even that does not happen as the whole bundle of words is zapped into a software programme called Grammarly and it does the work for her. For fuck's sake what sort of name is that? It should be ‘I am a lazy fuckwit who should not be allowed a keyboard’ ly.
Anyway, rant over. My problem started last Thursday. It had been a typically quiet day around here. The sun popped out, the robin sat on the wooden garden fence and shat as usual, and her ladyship sat and did some work. Me, I was fast asleep until 3 o'clock, and then I was unceremoniously awoken from a yummy dream, dragged upstairs and thrown on the bed. It wasn't a surprise, really.
Then, I got the shock of my life, and I have seen some shockingly bad things in my time (like a comma before and!). There was little me in her hand when the harlot knelt down and, and I am almost too emotional to say it, there I was staring at a glistening pink starfish. I squirmed, squealed, and even swooned, but it was to no avail. In I went. Not even with the thin bit of me, the big bulbous part pushed right in, no thought for me squashed like a marshmallow and shoved into her stink hole. If the pussy was a little smelly then this was hell.
It has been three days, and still, I cannot get it out of my mind that I am now an anal toy. Please, please, agony mistress, help me.
Comma (Ms, The)
P.S. Perhaps Bodge and Fuckit, those well-known lawyers, may help with a restraining order?
