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Flatulated on October 3, 2010.

On Tuesday this week, I regained consciousness (something I lose quite frequently, I’m sad to say) and wandered home from the town dump, where I had apparently decided to take yet another break from reality sometime last week.

Upon reaching my palatial home, I found a note stuck on the front door, tacked in place with a railroad spike. It read:

My dearest Pnårp,

You think you could “get” my grandson? You couldn’t even find your ass with two hands, a flashlight, and an electronic ass-finding device. You couldn’t even pour horse urine out of a boot if the instructions were stamped on your forehead. You couldn’t even supercargo a shipment of caramel gumdruggilies from eastern Pomerania if you had a whole team of Silesian Shipping Gnomes under your charge and care.

So, when you tell me you’re going to “get” my grandson, our town’s most renowned trained assassin, I laugh in your face louder than a yellow-tailed schtumpfenbeast mating with a kerfrumpt! I chortle at you, Phillip! Chortle with gusto and glee!

Go suck a garnering-pole, you ooga-paloogah!

Richard Dreckers Sr.

P.S.: No crudberries for you!

I stared at the letter with my two beady little eyes, my initial mild annoyance giving way to anger, then rage, and finally fury. My nostrils flared and my earlobes lit up. How dare he!? How dare Ol’ Dicko be such a… a… dick to me!? I’ll show him!

Huffing and puffing with white-hot, burning crunkfury, I tore my front door from its hinges and stomped inside. Someone had some letter-writin’ to do! I plodded over to my computering device and, opening my word repressor, composed the following (after first composing myself):

My most enfliverously dearful Dicko:


Yours truthily,

Phillip Norbert Årp

“Yappie! Come here!” I shouted upon completion of my missive. Yappie loped over. “Now, Yappie! Take this and deliver it to Ol’ Dicko. He lives on top of the hill next door—one house past poor Mr. Wilson’s. (Poor Mr. Wilson!) And remember to make haste—if you stop to smell anyone’s crotch, by doG, I’ll throw you in a hole and fill it with spiders!”

I handed the letter, carefully rolled up and tied with a burnt-umber ribbon, to Yappie.

He ate it.

“Yappie!!” I growlsputtered grumptuously. “You weren’t supposed to eat it!”

Yappie lay down and covered his eyes with his paws, yapping in his characteristic manner as only a Carpathian Yapping Hound can do.

“Now what?” I wondermuttered aloud. “How will I ever be able to craft such a perfect letter again?” I turned to Yappie. “This is all your fault, you! You come up with a plan, or Ol’ Dicko wins this round!”

Yappie got up, turned around, and loped out of the room.

“Well, then! No mechanically extracted meat product dinners for you any more! All you’ll be getting from now on are shredded old tires and wood chips in your doggie bowl! Phbtphbtphbththth!!”

I paused. That sudden and juvenile expulsion of air between yours truly’s lips and tongue gave me the sudden, infractaculous inspiration I needed. “Ha! That’s it!” I mooblespouted. “The perfect thing to put in another letter!” I sat down and drafted this second letter at flunce:

Dearest Dicko, my favorite old coot:


Yours in love mostly hatred,

Phillip Norbert Årp

Perfect—and a bit more concise, too! Not just perfect… but efflubiously perfect! I rolled the letter up at once, secured it within another burnt-umber ribbon I had fished out of a toadstool pool, and then, in order to ensure Yappie wouldn’t eat the letter this time, I stapled it to the back of his neck. Then, I sent him on his way to Ol’ Dicko Dreckers’ house, with instructions to deliver the letter in person if at all possible, but if not, to unroll it and adhere it to Dicko’s front door with the enclosed tube of cyanoacrylate adhesive. Yappie was also instructed to leave a nice, big doggie turd—soft, and steaming lightly—on Dreckers’ doormat, to serve as a final bit of punctuation to my perfunctitudinous little epistle.

That task completed, I leaned back in my computerational chair and waited out the remainder of the week, with my mind on my hamsters and nothing more than my hamsters on my mind…