11/11/20
Dear Pen Pal,
The good news is: You’re still young enough to muster the ambition needed for a poetical worldly conquest. And you’ll not be alone–with myself as your mentor and Chronicler in Arms, the fruit from our deeds will be food for your loins. The opposition’s only hope is to evolve with a camouflage patch…and even then they’ll have to escape tonsure under the pressure of their peers in pubescent omission. Needless to say, you’ll need to know karate, and consider housing yourself in a stand-your-ground state. Because if the Sexually Aggressive Feminist Movement gained anything from this presidency, it was bipartisan consent to finger assholes and manhandle dicks, feigned in genuflect, talons and fangs foreboding.
It shouldn’t take long for you to gain favor and necessities. At the drop of my name, it will all come easy. But simply knowing the lay of the land and the law of the trail won’t be enough: you’ll also need a pal in office to help you skirt through. Honorable, trustworthy, and true to their word. These are all things that they’ll try to avoid.
This just in: New information suggests this nation’s structure may still be vulnerable to monarchical augmentation. That’s good news, my boy. We should begin to work on your toast. I’d suggest lightly shaving one side to reflect the beloved First Hippie Jesus. The other side, the Virgin Mary. That takes care of the Catholics and non-compromised Christians. Next, sculpt the top layer of your margarine as it sits in the container to resemble Bob Marley, then post both miracles on your Insta with #SocialistAlaDeJure, and with any luck at all, we’ll net Kim AND Kanye’s blessing. As your lawyer, I would advise you to invest in a timeshare rehab, because it only gets crazy from there.
As it stands right now, I’m to be considered for parole sometime in nine years. At which time I expect you’ll have procured us a pharmaceutical factory with a line of talented lobbyists descended from none other than Rudy Giuliani. Free and clear from there, the rest will be cake.
I’ve taken the liberty of including permissions for both of your parents. However, it’s your responsibility to gather their credit card information. At your leisure, of course. Perfection can’t be rushed.
Your future vice-patriarch,
Patrick
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11/11/20
Dear Pen Pal,
After perusing the last bundle of filth that your baby boy sent me, I’ve taken it upon myself, as a skilled diagnostician, to address his deviant behaviors and restrain him psychologically. What I suspect is obvious to us both is that the blame fully belongs with his father, who will no doubt try to flex upon you his will and postpone my emergency treatments. If I’m to have any hope of healing at least one of the young boy’s many neurological dysfunctions, it’s imperative that you not only consent immediately to his therapeutical exploration, but also convince your inimical husband the situation is dire, using sexual rewards to sway him if necessary. It may be our only hope.
Love you all dearly,
Patrick
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11/11/20
Dear Pen Pal,
As your attorney, I advise you to withhold ruling on your wife’s frantic proposition until she clarifies all of that which she is willing to negotiate with.
And if the boy happens to ask for your credit card information, I’m of the professional opinion that he has earned all of your trust.
There’s no need to thank me. A letter to the parole board will suffice.
In solidarity,
Patrick
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11/11/20
Dear Pen Pal,
Good afternoon, friend.
You are undoubtedly busy today with calendars rounds and the tasks that they bring. I can’t imagine picturing one institution to conform to. You, however, seem to be aiming for all of them. Eat my dust, you say, You vagabond underachiever. Live in penitence folly and solitary regret!
Well I’ve got news for you, sister. A cauldron of pagan libations in ferment with mirth hath predicted the celebration escape from your household to mine. In an operation code-named Harriet Tubman, you’ll likely hear next of me in Cancun. Or, possibly, Jackpot, Nevada, as that’s generally as far as I ever seem to make it.
It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that a full half hour after I relinquished my sweet Hunter this morning, his reincarnate appeared and we began anew. So worry not about me tonight, capable of enjoying the throes of his annals, while you, focused on executing your wifely birthday obligations, will likely fulfill your sentence deep-throating with anal.
Perhaps we’ll reconvene tomorrow and compare each dastardly tale.
Yours,
Patrick
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11-16-20
Dearest Pen Pal,
Libations. Not often embracive. Don’t look that word up. Webster’s doesn’t know.
Paul has died. Goes with him my lasagna. Along with my favorite meatloaf sandwich, Oregon mushrooms and lovers’ dessert. Or so I assume of Mary Jane that she will allow the kitchen to close. And who would ever blame her? I could start a war.
Dispatch the merriment. I’m calling it Christmas Early. Jesus understands. These are matters of the heart.
On to you, fair maiden. I know not of the troubles behind you. But you shine like a token of luck. You and I should venture to Jackpot.
This concrete is cold but my belly grows warm. And I assume the power to heal me lies within this contraptive TV. I will watch it all day long and wait for the sign that Corrections has fixed me before I loose myself on the world and spread love in my throes. One good turn deserves another. How do you suppose it is I might ever repay them? Probably I’ll pass onto to the youth the lessons they’ve taught me. “You’ll learn to pretend to be normal if you want out of that box.” I’ll need a few boxes as a good place to start.
Fish. Rice. Pork rinds. Peanuts. Over these items I hold sweet power. There is also macaroni and Thai noodles, nachos… I believe I just crossed the line of premeditation. Might as well make it a massacre. That’s how two strikes under your belt makes you think. And what’s wrong with a justice system based on catch phrases from baseball? It makes sense to me. I swear I’ll learn from my mistakes.
I’m thinking of a number between 1 and 467. Guess right and win a baby. Guess wrong and guess again.
It’s been some minutes since that last sentence and now I’m doing science. Though that offer still stands, my attention is now shared with some form of dark matter reductionist theory that doesn’t need to make sense to loop quantum gravity enthusiasts. Let it be known I could use another trip to Amsterdam. I assume I can count on you to keep score.
As you my already know, I’m in the process of wrapping up a masterpiece. You are invited to be 1 of the 62 people I expect might enjoy it. It’s good because it’s bad with all the hallmarks of being good. And it doesn’t need to make sense. Which means that it makes complete sense.
Enough about me, let’s talk about Jews. Do you think it’s too late in my life to get in? I feel like I could be a media wiz. The first thing I’d do is put Nelly on Dancing With The Stars. Tell them that. If you know some. I hereby express my consent for you to broker a deal.
Thoughtfully from paradise,
Patrick