Dear Mrs Steve Phillips
It has been a while since I wrote to you but you keep hanging up when I call the house. I mean I know it is an unlisted number but I was able to get it very easily from another girl Steve had boincked. Steve had boincked a bunch of girls you know. He still is. The check out girl at Walbaums. Your manicurist. His mothers home care attendant. Everybody except you bitch.
Anyhoo I want to see if Steve wants to go with me to the All Star game at Citifield. I know the Mets don't let him in unless he buys a ticket but I got some freebees. You see I have some massage clients up in Massachuets where I live now. I do a lot of the Patriots. Bill Belechick loves his manicures. And his massages. And his Cleveland Steamers. So I have doing a bunch of them so to speak and somehow I got Aaron Hernandez won't be using his tickets. He loved when I massaged his eyeball with my nipples. So Steve and I can check out the game together like we used to do back in the day at ESPN. I even saved the Met stuff he gave me from the lost and found at the stadium.
I even have an old Mr Met's head that I can wear while we have butt sex in the parking lot in my Acura. Just like old times.
I want you to remind the kids to watch out who they link to on Pinterest. They really shouldn't suscribe to my site. Unless they want to see photo's of their Dad's weiner. And Weiner's weiner. I have a whole gallery. Now I admit that Pete Gaamons weiner is interesting because it looks like a tiny white worm in the bottom of a tequila bottle. But take it from me. You shouldn't try to swallow that either.
Please be sure to look both ways when you walk to the car after you get your nails done at A-1 Number Nail parlor. Especailly if you see a dusty brown Acura with a broken windshield.
And a dirty Mr Met head in the back seat.
Toodles,
Your Pal,
Brooke.
8 comments:
I spent the entire morning laying sod and landscaping for a neighbor with 4 other guys. Afterwards, we repaired to Hooters for wings and beer.
It's boinking hot out here in the west.
Not here, John. Cool and foggy at sunrise. The sun may burn through the clouds by noon, but the expected high is 79.
June Gloom does have its upside, I reckon.
I think this stalker is into Trooper now, that's why he has all the photos.
E. P. Raylan - time to repost the eulogy.
It would take more time than anybody has around this comment section to think of the right thing to say about Trooper York.
He was an original; not just an American original, but an original, period. He was a happy accident; one of the happiest this corner of the blogosphere has experienced; and judging by the way it's been behaving in spite of all Trooper tried to tell it about laughter, love, children, good food, God, and spirits, they hardly deserved him.
He probably did more to heal or at least to soothe troubled human spirits than all the psychiartrists in the world. There can't be many adults in the allegedly civilized parts of the blogosphere who did not inhabit Trooper's comment section and imagination at least for a few hours and feel better for the visitation.
It may be true, as somebody said, that while there is no highbrow in a lowbrow, there is some lowbrow in every highbrow.
But what Trooper York seemed to know was that while there is very little grown-up in a child, there is a lot of child in every grown-up. To a child this weary world is brand new, gift wrapped; Trooper York tried to keep it that way for us adults...
By the conventional wisdom, gratuitous bathtubs, Dear Mrs Steve Philips, Garage Maha's Roadkill Korner, Tales From Amy’s Garden - all these were fantasy, escapism from reality. It's a question of whether they are any less real, any more fantastic than out-of-control deficits, carbon taxes, gay catholic weddings, ubiquitous divorce, and Honey Boo Boo. This is the age of fantasy, however you look at it, but Trooper's fantasy wasn't lethal.
People are already saying we'll never see his like again.
Thanks *sniff*...
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