March 28, 2002
Laura Bush
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
Washington, D.C.
Dear Laura:
Im tired of writing to your husband. Ah, Laura, some women have figures like an hour glass, but you my dear, you have the figure of a water bottle. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Ah, Laura, imagine us locked in a passionate embrace, our reading glasses clashing like armies in the night. Imagine it: our pale white, flabby bodies flopping about spasmodically like beached whales. You dont know how long Ive been waiting to tell you this, but you have the most beautiful rib cage Ive ever seen. And your corneas are so ripe for harvesting. Im sure a woman like you gets told this all the time, but have you ever thought about joining the white slave trade? So how about it, would you like to make dissonant, awful music together?
No?
Oh, so Im not good enough for you, eh? This is the thanks I get. I raised you from a tadpole swimming about in a murky pond since you were a wee tot, since you were a tiny one-celled organism. Why, I raised you from a test tube now that I think about it. And this is the thanks I get! I dedicated the best years of my life to you. I waited on you hand and foot, served you breakfast in the morning, cleaned your socks, scrubbed your armpits, buried the excess bodies, plucked the fluffy white lint out of your cavernous belly button. Dont you remember when I used to vacuum your beautiful belly button? Oh, you used to love it so. And now look what you do. You turn your shapeless back on me, which can be quite dangerous now that I think about it, considering the damage your back has caused men and plant life in the past.
No, forget it, I dont want your apology. You had your chance. Good-bye.
Sincerely yours,
Robert Guffey