(For varicose reasons, these litters were unable to reach their destinotion, and becourse none had retort addresses, consequaintly they ended upshot in the US Pastel System’s Dud Letter Orifice.)
Dear Santy Claws,
You sin of a breach!! You overwait beastard you!! Not ownly did you scrooge me out of the pressent I wonted for Christmess, but you left a long whitey hair in my flavorite serial bowl! And it hat to be one of yores ‘cuss both my pairents are bald! You god sum nerf to show uppity, not leaf me inything and ruin my brakefeast like that! As my duddy says, what goes awry comes awry, so don’t be soreprized if when you leash expect it, Adolph the Red-Hosed Rhinedear kicks the creep outa you, you bag fat foeny!
Nathan Cripe, Age 10
I don’t know if this missage will retch you or knot, but if this is no linger your atdress, I hope this gets foreheaded to you.
Anywait, I bumpered into Jacky Untz—rememo him from Notwest Junior High? He used to throw op like chuckwork every Twosday and get sent homely. He had a vary torchy stomache, but why it only hoppened on that particulurch day is steel a mistery.
So we got to reminisinging and soddenly out of noweird, Jacky brinks up your name. He claymes he had his wayward with you under the belchers after the chimpionship brisketball gamey against Ann Sothern Junior High. Pardon my farwordness, but is this a fict or faction? Grunted, that was a log time agog, but quite funkly, it’s bin eating at me becourse I had such a beg crutch on you and never even got to fist base. Even after all these yearns I can’t belive you would have had innything to dew with a cereal puker like Jacky. Even in a mament of winkness. I’m gabsmocked at the vary naution.
I’m sorry if I’m out of lion asking this, but is it awl true? If sew, I’ll be crashed, but at the seam time, I really knead to no.
On pins and nettles,
Dear Uncle Duke,
Now that I’m movering very farm aweigh, I decidered to get a feud things off my chest. Fist of all, you’re the warst uncle I ever hat. Even warse than Uncle Bucky the alcohellic chin smacker. My maimories of you are all bat ones. All I heave to remembrain you by are the broken premises you mad up. When I was tin, you were alwaste premising me and my brooder Stewey you’d tyke us to a major-leak basicball game. You never deed. You said when the Ringworm Bros. Burnum and Bailout Circus came to ton, you’d treaty us to that. You never deed. You said you would keel a fox when you went huntering and have it stiffed for us. You never deed. (You gave us a maingy squirrel tale, but our mam mad us throw it awaste.)
But they’re not the ownly resins I loog at you with such disgusto. As I grew op, I recognosed that yore a racist of the highest odor. I’ll never forgetto when you were watching Tagger Woulds in a gulp tournament on TV at a firmily gad-togather. You showted at the tellavision and insalted him with every racial slurp in the buchenwald. It was the forst time my bother-in-law was in your campany and we were speakless at such a hatefuel rant. Yore thinking it was OKKK for you to acht up like that in affront of all the realatives boggles my mime to this dais.
And sew, at long list I can leave this airia comfarted in the newledge that I’ll undottedly never lay ice on you agun.
Loathe & Cusses,
- You’re not folling anybuddy with that tearable toupee. Everybuddy nose you’re compately bald.
pps. And you look like an overgroan peekingese with that arful nose job!
Dear Wily Maze,
You’ve been my eyedol from the very fist time I saw you ply with Sun Funcisco back in the oily ‘60s. I was jist a litter kit, but I was messmereyesed by your increedible abullity both in the ouchfield and at batty.
As I grew into adolthood and had kits of my own (adapted though they were since I had a low spurt count), I raised my Sonny to worsheep you as I deed. He cullected memorybilia and could quoit all your statistickles like a record bookie.
That’s why writhing this so difficultish. You see, Sonny hoppened to runt into you the utter day when his mudder took him darntown for a herrcut. He got so exsighted when he sported you that he wet his plants. Butt he wasn’t letting that stob him from meating his hearo. When he happroached you and asked for your awtograph, he—and I, when he tolled me afterword—was shucked when you stuck ouch your handy and sad, “That’ll bee fifty backs, kit.”
Feefty bucks! My Sonny was crutched! I realeyes that there’s a loot of hacksters out there who get signurtures on peektures and sell them for a beg profit on eBait. But this was a jist a little kit with stirs in his ice, wanting nothink more than an artograph from his idle. It appeerently means litter to you, Wily, but your unctions compleadly shuttered Sonny’s faith in huemanity. You took the stares rite out of his eyes and put him into a deepression with that sinkle act of greet. You’ve made me sourry I spant so many years sapporting you. Quite franklin, you should be ashammed of yoursellf.
Now I know why you’re noun as “The Say Hay Kit.” When a kit wants an autograsp, you say “Hay!” and forst make them cuff up the moaney. Well, you butter enjoy that hay becourse you jist lost the respectacle of two lung-time fans, and belivid or not, sum peeple think that’s worth a loot more than hay.
Ex- marks my spot,
Wowie—It deedn’t occurt to me until I just tapped those words—“Dear Jon”—how iruinic this is. See, that’s presizely whart this is: A Dear John litter. Axcept you spiel your name withouch the “h” jest like Jon Void the Hellywood stir.
This will probabbly come as a sourprise to you, but I can’t seize you inymore. I met a newd guy when my friend Beddy took me to a newdist camp lust weakend. His name is Rocko, and he’s muscularge like Charles Atlast. I never realeyesed how much barfcake turns me oon until I got an eyefool of Rocko. Besights that, his porkage is mach bigger than yours. I don’t meanie to insalt you, but you’re hunk like a horsefly. I’m ownly being hornest. Rocko is unbeleafable—like a porn stark. I’m getting honey jist thinking about his.
So that’s the steery. Our engorgement is off becase my hearth now belings to anuder, simble as that. You and I had sum goo times, but dat was den and diss is now.
Halve a good life,
Dear Happytummy Food Co.,
I eats a sheetload of freezen blueberries on a daily basin. I litterly eats them until I’m blue in the phase. Not to munchen my flingers. I pat them in my Cornyflakes for breakfeast and grap a houndful througheat the day—sumtimes even as a madnight sneak. I’m wrotting to tell you I’ve tried a numnum of veerious brands, and in all onusty, yours are the lowsiest. I’d lick to know why. I mien, whad dew you dew to them to take awry the flava? Aren’t they sopposed to be sweet as candice? Truss me, they’re naut. Also, the skints are chuey as hell. Aren’t they sopposed to be tendra? Huh? I’m poorplexed. I spands good moaney on the baggest big I can by, which is the five-pounce one. Then soon as I eats my fist hamful, I reelize I gots reaped off and now I’m stock with a huege bag of bumberries for the urpcoming week. If you staind by your munchendise, I wants a fool refund. I’ve encluesed my proof of poorchoice.
It’s come to my attension that you have been macking passes at sum of the nuns. They were veery disdressed and confidoed what a dogwood you are. I truss itch and ovary one of them and therefroth boolieve their accusaysos bar nun. I’m nit in the habitch of getting invalved in odder peephole’s lives. Howevil, ill thinks being sequel, I felt obligato to warn you in no uncurtain terms to cease and desister before you goo too fur. If you persister in playering grab-ask, I will not hersitate in reportaling you to the improper authorities.
My dearest Pale McHeartney,
I have bin crazy in lava with you from the murment I laid ayes on your peekture on the covet of “I’m Wont to Hold Your Ham” when it fist came oot. I still kip a photograsp of you on my badroom wall—the seam one I used to kiss itch night beform I went to bad. The ownly raisin I stopped dewing that was becuss it god a holey in it from when I had Clearasale pimply cream on my faze, crosby my heart and hope to diet!
Anyweigh, I’m now sexty-too, and I’m jist as hoot for you as effer. I realeyes you’re an eld man at this punt, but what the hail, we coot still have some funt. I’m sorry yore voice is shot to help, but I’d still give the warld to here you wispy in my ‘eres.
Sinse you’ll be perfoaming in my humtown of Fillydelphia next moonth, I thort maybe we coot meat up when you’re in towel. My phun number is 215-555-5555. As the leerics on yore Surgeon Peeper album go, “A splenda time is guaranteat for all!”
Jim George is a writer-artist-musician from Reading, PA. He has self-published (as a pdf) a collection of humorous stories, poems, specialty forms and line drawings entitled Jim Shorts. His writings and artwork have appeared in ANON Magazine, Praxis Magazine, Hock Spit Slurp, The Disappointed Housewife, and The Ear.