How are you. You frigid bitch. I haven't written to you in a while because I have been very busy.
I lost the job at the massage parlor because my best customer Al got in a lot of trouble and all the girls who worked with him got let go. Sort of what happened with Steve and all the girls he knew when he ran the Mets. They fired ten secretaries, three girls at the cafeteria and that effeminate ballboy. They cleaned house just like they did when they fired Omar Mineya. Then they just fired all the beaners instead of the broads. But it was the same thing.
Anyhoo I am going to the General Managers meeting to see if I can get another gig. Maybe they someone to massage the stats or something like that there. So I want you to tell Steve that if anyone calls for a background check he better give me a good report or else. Or else what you say? Or else I might tell them all about him and his tiny Mr. Met. I don't think you want that to get around. I mean Steve had the smallest little thing I ever saw. Even Pete Gaamons was bigger and they guy is ninety fuckin years old for Christ's sake. And Al was even bigger even though it would start to shrink whenever someone started talking about global warming. But I could fix that when I got in the polar bear suit with the crotch cut out. But nothing would help your Stevie. So he better not mess me up when I go for a new job.
I am trying to get with the Chicago teams. Either the Cubs or the White Sox. I don't care which one I can go either way. Which is what I am going to say about Stevie if he fucks with me again.
Oh and tell you sons not to friend anyone who askes on Facebook just because they sent them a photo of their chucky. Just sayn.
And remember. Look both ways when you cross the street bitch. Especailly if you see a brown Acura with a broken back window.
Toodles,
You pal
Brooke.
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