Dear LITTLE WALTER
I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been about you. The last time I heard from you, you had send me a photograph of your likeness which did enchant and delight mine eye. Forgive me, dear Walter, but I did share this photograph with my esteemed colleagues at the abbatoir who snatched and grabbed at it, as if you were a piece of meat, or a sturdy carrot or a chunky Staffordshire bull terrier. Sure, I could understand the feelings your photograph would incite in these harridans-what woman would not be sensible of how handsome you are, however I have to own that jealousy stirred deep within me, deep deep within me, so deep, I dare to venture that I felt my very own bowel stir with longing and territoriality. Mine is a jealous bowel, as diagnosed by my consultant bum docto, Mr.Delbert Wilkins.
Moreover, the opinion of the lustful wenches at the abbatoir was to let you make me financially rich, and at some point, we might be together. Do you think you could accept my culture, dear WALTER? To tempt you, I must make you sensible of the high life we live here in East Skemmerlandia. I myself, are envied by the masses as I own a sunbed and a breville pie magic…o WALTER, we could have pies on DEMAND! Any flavour your heart desires! WE could even put diamond in them. I understand that this is probably what you’d like to eat given you come from Diamond Rich Ford Sierra. They make be a bit crunchy, WALTER, but I’m willing to try it because your CULTURE is important to me. Perhaps soom we could be eating our diamond pies, on the Ford Sierra riveria for our holidays. I bet it’s so glamorous, sipping a cool panda pops shandy by the poolside, surrounded by eggs and acrylic nails.
Because of the burning rage incited in me from the jealousy of my colleagues, I went out into the street and howled at the sun-god, Delbert. I screamed “why doest thou mock me?”. He didn’t answer, the worthless deity. Do you worship Delbert in Sierra Cosworth? I hope so, even though he’s a bit shit? If not, it could cause proper cultural differences that I hope we could overcome, by say, a playfight or by stripping off. It’s the only way we resolve such issues here.
O, LITTLE WALTER, can I forward your e-mail to all the people in my e-mail address book and they could rally together and sort you out? See, I myself have no bank account to speak of. My catalogue bills are so substantial that I have ‘bad’ credit. Well, they call it ‘bad credit’ but how can debts amassed to purchase a playboy duvet cover be bad in anyway? It’s sexy credit at least. Maybe it means ‘bad’ in naughty way? Do you know what I mean there, WALTER? I’m insinuating I’m a bit raunchy here. You refer to me as your ‘good friend’. Is that all you see me as, a ‘friend’? Say it isn’t so! In England ‘good friends’ means something really exciting, I’ll let you imagine, with your mind, where the imagination operates largely, as well as secondary imagination, which operates in the nodes of ranvier.
O please reply soon, dear one. I fear my heart cannot last much longer without being sensible of how you are faring. Like shoe fayre.