Letter Day: Quatro Nuevo

September 26, 2006

Since Valliant has to work for living again the letter writing duties have been turned over to their rightful owner. Since things were delayed let get right down to business.

Letter #1: Ice Cube

Hey Doc, I had a dream I was an ice cube. My friend was compacting spices into
me and then sending ice-cube-me to himself across the world and back
through a tube. He then melted me to extract the spices.

I dreamt last light I was Captain Marvel (the Shazam guy) but also hosting a variety television show out of my high school gym to pickup some extra credits. The whole time I was trying to battle the evil Black Adam, while attempting to convince these kids to role-play with me. At the end of the dream a friend of mine had to leave so I gave him three restaurant receipts so he could get powers if he needed them.

Letter #2: Cheerful

Dear Letter bag
I’m writing because of my co-worker. I work in some regular office
with bleak and dreary-eyed slaves to self-pity. It doens`t really
matter what we do it this office. We could be involved in the creation
of a cure for AIDS or for a magic wand that will keep food from going
bad that these people wouldn’t be more excited about their job than
now. But this new guy arrived, and he’s totally oblivious to the vibe.
He’s really excited about everything (his main duty is to staple our
quarterly report and check it for typos) and because I’m the only
non-zombie in this place, he’s latched on to me like a fruit fly to a
decomposing peach.
Not only is he oblivious to the funeral mood that pervades my
workplace, he acts in a way that totally antagonizes my already
off-put coworkers. Yesterday he wore a red clown nose for three hours
and showed us his matching underwear. He used staples and drafts of
the quarterly report to make a paper swan. When the accountant Ted got
caught off guard by this new guy asking him for his opinion on his
work, he answered, flustered, that it was very good. New Guy found a
power stapler and made a new life size one of out cardboard.
Anyways, I just want your advice on how I should use this new dim but
nice guy to sow some energetic ruckus in my office. I’m so bored I
wrote sketched a portrait of my boss engaging in zoophiliac activities
with our mascot goat.

Office Wench

Holy Christ Wench, I don’t think he’s latched onto you so much as he is waiting for you to finish your side of the conversation. Concision my dear, concision. As for ruckus sowing, jack the pointdexter up on three cups of coffee and bait him into a game of playful racial slurs. One he gets really comfortable with the idea send him back into the wild to write himself a hate crime ticket out of there.

Letter #3: Poetry Request

Hey AJ, make me poem Debbie Muphila

(AJ steps away from desk)

Ok, I call this “Mind Powers”

You think I haven’t killed man
You think haven’t tried
You think I never willed a man
To death until he died

Aj Valliant

Letter #4: Castration

Dear Dr. Entropy, Where did our balls go?

Kind Regards,

Moo-face and McOrange

It’s Dr. Entropic actually, but since you are cats,who took the time to write me, I’ll look past it.

Moo-Face, Fatty, you have made the cardinal mistake: you let a women take your balls away from you.

You see once a she-devil gets her hooks into you she become resentful and suspicious of the free living masculinity that drew her in, in the first place. Once you’re on the boat gasping air then she gets to cutting; maybe it’s with modern dance tickets, or antique shopping, or constant calls when your out with the boys, whatever they can find to peel a few layers of your man grapes then will use.

I wish I could give you good news fellas, but I cannot. From here on in you will become fat, slow, wheedling creatures. The closest thing to excitement you will expirence is your sisters kids friends coming over to use the pool; maybe that minxy 12th grader will wear her string bikini and you can find an excuse to check the chlorine every 20 mins, maybe give them shoulder rides and have pool noodle fights. Then your harpy of wife Joyce will drag you away to spray the drive for fungus. Fuck that Joyce, you don’t know me, I played semi pro ball and almost had a screenplay green lighted by an Indy studio… oh god smother me, she’s killing my spirit.

Anyway cats, your balls are in the trash and so is your life. Welcome neuter town, thank your mom.

Letter #5: Fuck you David Kehoe

Where is part three to that “Cartoons you get angry about” thing?

You guys never finish anything. And who won that goddamn haiku contest? David Kehoe

The next cartoon thing should be up later this week. Since the rest the lazy bastards that run this site have failed to pick a winner I will.

My favorite is

I’m not impressed
He just hangs around all day
Lazy Messiah

But the best one, and the winner, is

a dashing young valliant
once upon a time
fell prey to a pair of pants

you’d think it impossible
to be trapped in pants
but they were stuck on his head

turns out when you pull too hard
pants can choke a man
and scissors will be needed.

By Untao.

Letter #6: Public humiliation

I dare you to tell me a embarrassing and crude true story. Dude Winnigan

Let me tell you something dude; the only advice my old man ever gave me was “Don’t wrestle a bear and don’t take dare”. Right now you are daring me to wrestle a bear, and I am disinclined to accede. On the other hand my old man was a drunk who froze to death sniffing gas outside a rec center, so maybe his advice isn’t the best to follow.

My true, plenty crude, embarrassing story:

A couple years ago I decided to shave my head right before I went out for the night. Being pressed for time I threw the mass of hair clipping in the washroom trash and forgot about them. Fast forward large amounts of booze, drugs, and several ill advised shawarmas, and I find myself back home and once again in the bathroom. I proceed to spray from my torso the foulest spatters of black tar and broken dreams a mortal being could produce. Once the major convulsion past I noticed that there was no toilet paper. Floundering about, blinded by intoxicants, I grabbed a handful of my severed hair and gave it a battlefield promotion to T.P. The was the single worse decision of my life, and to this day I have three feet of hairy colon and internal itch when I laugh.

I hope we have disgusted and enlightened you enough to make up for the delay. Letter Day Returns next week, on time, so swears Dr. Entropic.


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