Comedy Letter

Dear Sir

Apologies for the formality but I am yet to find out your name. Sorry if, in that light, this missive carries excessive cupidity, especially as I have seemingly deflected your previous advances. I apologies if as I rush past you on my way to another fresh day of hell, if I have a face like a slapped arse. I will endeavour to control my facial carriage to your pleasing in future.

I feel weak at the knees every time I anticipate walking past the site on which you labour, glistening with sweat from your morning’s exertion. I’ve always found that the very presence of a high ‘vis’ jacket has a most peculiar effect on my heart. Some would suggest arrhythmia. I would argue, on you my good angel, something more profound. Until now, I had always thought I preferred a neck on my men or a waist even, but something about the very sight of your colossal crack over the waistband of BHS briefs, leaves me gasping.

I delight that my accoutrements regularly receive your approbation. As everyone knows, ‘Fat Girls’ have low self-regard, so the perspicacious cat calling and superabundant wolf whistles you shower on me, like a gentle Scotch mist on new-sprung heather, emolliate fears of my own physical repulsiveness; though as you so convivially note, my arse does have a certain callipygian endowment. I think your exact words were, “like jelly on a plate”. You’ve penetrated my soul and identified my adoration for gaily coloured gelatine.

Your decried assertion that I am ‘Fit for a Fatty’ has enforced my own vivacious attitude towards my exterior. You were asking if fat girls give better head? I blush to tell you, but it’s a 100% true. Basically it’s because we’re so grateful for the human contact. And because we are constantly filling our flabby maws with food, the musculature of the jaw is dramatically increased. I am to the pleasure of man what Arnold Schwarzenegger is to 1990s action films, only with a better gag reflex. But, alas, I fear you will never know!

That my longing for you to “put your shovel in my cement mixer” is so clear discombobulates me in the extreme. In fact, that vivid description hasn’t failed to impress by its evidentiary precept, that you are a man of the world, who clearly gets ‘it’ a lot. On my close examination of your divine personage I have failed to spy a wedding ring. Your unwed state is an enigma to me and it pains me to think of you going home alone, drinking yourself into a stupor on Mr Tesco’s finest Value lager, to drown the pain of inevitable isolation such wisdom must surely bring, and then pissing yourself in the night like a helpless babe.

Please don’t be put off by my long words. My epistolary circumlocution is merely proving that the failing of language in the face of your concupiscence. I do not expect you to love me, I am not worthy of your love. But use me as you would your bull mastiff, were you to give your mastiff a really good going over. I only hope that the size of your JCB and your undoubted gasconading wit is not compensating for some personal failing. I await, with baited breathe, your riposte.

Yours…

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