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Dear Mr.Hackett,
Your wife is beyond repair. She’s insane. In recent weeks she’s even resorted to using her own faeces as blusher, eye-shadow and lipstick. Can you believe it! What a nutcase. My extensive treatments have failed. She’s gar-gar. It’s “lock the door and throw away the key” time. She’s gone with the wind. With any luck she’ll top herself, saving me the hassle and you the monthly fee.
Keep this to yourself, Mr.Hackett, but with your permission I could see to it that a razorblade is “accidentally” left behind in her cell. I’m fairly certain it wouldn’t be long before the mad dragon slices herself to shreds with it, taking into account her “loopyloo” and [quite frankly] contemptible self-image problems. Please advise a.s.a.p. She’s driving me up the wall with her constant screeching and yabbering. I can fully understand why you beat the s**t out of her.
And in a roundabout way your past violence is my true purpose of writing you. Heh, it’s peculiar how things turn out. You see, I’ve started to write again. Yes, it’s true! And it’s all thanks to you, Mr.Hackett, and to a lesser extent, your filthy wife. If it wasn’t for your utterly justified backhanded slaps, your well-aimed kicks, and your face-altering headbutts [the witch deserved it: "battery is the stepfather of sustained provocation"], the creative juices within me would never have flowed again. I truly believed I had dried up for good. But no, no, no! In my arduous and exasperating attempts to treat/cure/control your batty wife’s psychosis, I found myself seriously needing to let off steam.
Yes I could’ve unscrewed my cork by visiting Milda Maple’s five-star knocking shop [it’s located downstairs/underneath Tripotoni’s Ristorante, just in case you don’t know], and yes I could’ve chosen one of Madame Maple’s sweet young cherrypoppers, retired to her private room for an allover body massage followed by an essential-oil handshank [the best orgasm 50 spondulix can buy], and yes I could’ve toddled off home twinkling like a star over Egypt, purchased a bunch of lush roses and enjoyed second helpings with my better-half, but on how many occasions do you think I’ve done that, Mr.Hackett? Well let me tell you: exactly 577 times in the past four years. I needed something different. The hanky-panky high only lasts so long.
And then it happened. Hoopla! Torch a fackin’ wigwam! Just thinking about it makes me crazy with delight! As I sat in my Roller and triggered the security gates of my mansion [you can’t be too careful these days, the country’s being overrun by scum] - it happened! Clickety-click! Just like that, from nowhere. I just knew in my balls that I was going to write something, something creative, for the first time in two friggin’ decades! And it’s all down to you, Mr.Hackett. If you hadn’t shattered your wife’s self-esteem and sent her to nutsville by t******g the living daylights out of her over several years, and if you hadn’t dragged her loathsome and broken being to me, abandoned her at my institute and not given me the opportunity to experiment on her f*****-up mind, then I doubt very much I would have ever, EVER rediscovered my creative side again!
So, Mr.Hackett, I’m writing this letter in deep and sincere gratitude to say a big THANK YOU. Every moment of every day is now just one long tiptoe spark of sublimity! So thanks a million, Mr.Hackett. Thanks a billion! A trillion! No, you have been priceless.
Yours,
Doc Spackman.
[ps. Don’t forget to give me the green light concerning the ‘accidental” razorblade in your wife’s cell.]
Your wife is beyond repair. She’s insane. In recent weeks she’s even resorted to using her own faeces as blusher, eye-shadow and lipstick. Can you believe it! What a nutcase. My extensive treatments have failed. She’s gar-gar. It’s “lock the door and throw away the key” time. She’s gone with the wind. With any luck she’ll top herself, saving me the hassle and you the monthly fee.
Keep this to yourself, Mr.Hackett, but with your permission I could see to it that a razorblade is “accidentally” left behind in her cell. I’m fairly certain it wouldn’t be long before the mad dragon slices herself to shreds with it, taking into account her “loopyloo” and [quite frankly] contemptible self-image problems. Please advise a.s.a.p. She’s driving me up the wall with her constant screeching and yabbering. I can fully understand why you beat the s**t out of her.
And in a roundabout way your past violence is my true purpose of writing you. Heh, it’s peculiar how things turn out. You see, I’ve started to write again. Yes, it’s true! And it’s all thanks to you, Mr.Hackett, and to a lesser extent, your filthy wife. If it wasn’t for your utterly justified backhanded slaps, your well-aimed kicks, and your face-altering headbutts [the witch deserved it: "battery is the stepfather of sustained provocation"], the creative juices within me would never have flowed again. I truly believed I had dried up for good. But no, no, no! In my arduous and exasperating attempts to treat/cure/control your batty wife’s psychosis, I found myself seriously needing to let off steam.
Yes I could’ve unscrewed my cork by visiting Milda Maple’s five-star knocking shop [it’s located downstairs/underneath Tripotoni’s Ristorante, just in case you don’t know], and yes I could’ve chosen one of Madame Maple’s sweet young cherrypoppers, retired to her private room for an allover body massage followed by an essential-oil handshank [the best orgasm 50 spondulix can buy], and yes I could’ve toddled off home twinkling like a star over Egypt, purchased a bunch of lush roses and enjoyed second helpings with my better-half, but on how many occasions do you think I’ve done that, Mr.Hackett? Well let me tell you: exactly 577 times in the past four years. I needed something different. The hanky-panky high only lasts so long.
And then it happened. Hoopla! Torch a fackin’ wigwam! Just thinking about it makes me crazy with delight! As I sat in my Roller and triggered the security gates of my mansion [you can’t be too careful these days, the country’s being overrun by scum] - it happened! Clickety-click! Just like that, from nowhere. I just knew in my balls that I was going to write something, something creative, for the first time in two friggin’ decades! And it’s all down to you, Mr.Hackett. If you hadn’t shattered your wife’s self-esteem and sent her to nutsville by t******g the living daylights out of her over several years, and if you hadn’t dragged her loathsome and broken being to me, abandoned her at my institute and not given me the opportunity to experiment on her f*****-up mind, then I doubt very much I would have ever, EVER rediscovered my creative side again!
So, Mr.Hackett, I’m writing this letter in deep and sincere gratitude to say a big THANK YOU. Every moment of every day is now just one long tiptoe spark of sublimity! So thanks a million, Mr.Hackett. Thanks a billion! A trillion! No, you have been priceless.
Yours,
Doc Spackman.
[ps. Don’t forget to give me the green light concerning the ‘accidental” razorblade in your wife’s cell.]
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Yeah, i concur with Ashman, I was waiting foir something to link everything in, to be the lynchpin, so to speak, and to make it seem like it had a morale.
I'm left not knowing what to say after that, I normally give feedback in detail for every SSC story I read; but every, single word has escaped my comprehension here.
Worrying, distressing and quite bizarre. On some levels I liked it but on others I didn't know whether I was coming or going.
Strange, and that is probably a compliment to what you were trying to achieve.
Worrying, distressing and quite bizarre. On some levels I liked it but on others I didn't know whether I was coming or going.
Strange, and that is probably a compliment to what you were trying to achieve.
If it's not in the swear filter, it shouldn't matter
You're running a bit of a risk though with the swearing, aren't you?
Brilliant story, truly fantastic, I enjoyed every word.
The problem I'm having, though, is the moral or whatever behind the story - I know, not manhy stories have them, but this just seems like one that does. Am I missing something?
The problem I'm having, though, is the moral or whatever behind the story - I know, not manhy stories have them, but this just seems like one that does. Am I missing something?
Ahar.
Wonderful.
Wonderful.
Crazy, rude and disgusting in places, but suprisingly lovable. An aquired taste, but overall a respectable piece. Not my real kind of story, but that's not to say it's no good.
Dear Mr.Hackett,
Your wife is beyond repair. She’s insane. In recent weeks she’s even resorted to using her own faeces as blusher, eye-shadow and lipstick. Can you believe it! What a nutcase. My extensive treatments have failed. She’s gar-gar. It’s “lock the door and throw away the key” time. She’s gone with the wind. With any luck she’ll top herself, saving me the hassle and you the monthly fee.
Keep this to yourself, Mr.Hackett, but with your permission I could see to it that a razorblade is “accidentally” left behind in her cell. I’m fairly certain it wouldn’t be long before the mad dragon slices herself to shreds with it, taking into account her “loopyloo” and [quite frankly] contemptible self-image problems. Please advise a.s.a.p. She’s driving me up the wall with her constant screeching and yabbering. I can fully understand why you beat the s**t out of her.
And in a roundabout way your past violence is my true purpose of writing you. Heh, it’s peculiar how things turn out. You see, I’ve started to write again. Yes, it’s true! And it’s all thanks to you, Mr.Hackett, and to a lesser extent, your filthy wife. If it wasn’t for your utterly justified backhanded slaps, your well-aimed kicks, and your face-altering headbutts [the witch deserved it: "battery is the stepfather of sustained provocation"], the creative juices within me would never have flowed again. I truly believed I had dried up for good. But no, no, no! In my arduous and exasperating attempts to treat/cure/control your batty wife’s psychosis, I found myself seriously needing to let off steam.
Yes I could’ve unscrewed my cork by visiting Milda Maple’s five-star knocking shop [it’s located downstairs/underneath Tripotoni’s Ristorante, just in case you don’t know], and yes I could’ve chosen one of Madame Maple’s sweet young cherrypoppers, retired to her private room for an allover body massage followed by an essential-oil handshank [the best orgasm 50 spondulix can buy], and yes I could’ve toddled off home twinkling like a star over Egypt, purchased a bunch of lush roses and enjoyed second helpings with my better-half, but on how many occasions do you think I’ve done that, Mr.Hackett? Well let me tell you: exactly 577 times in the past four years. I needed something different. The hanky-panky high only lasts so long.
And then it happened. Hoopla! Torch a fackin’ wigwam! Just thinking about it makes me crazy with delight! As I sat in my Roller and triggered the security gates of my mansion [you can’t be too careful these days, the country’s being overrun by scum] - it happened! Clickety-click! Just like that, from nowhere. I just knew in my balls that I was going to write something, something creative, for the first time in two friggin’ decades! And it’s all down to you, Mr.Hackett. If you hadn’t shattered your wife’s self-esteem and sent her to nutsville by t******g the living daylights out of her over several years, and if you hadn’t dragged her loathsome and broken being to me, abandoned her at my institute and not given me the opportunity to experiment on her f*****-up mind, then I doubt very much I would have ever, EVER rediscovered my creative side again!
So, Mr.Hackett, I’m writing this letter in deep and sincere gratitude to say a big THANK YOU. Every moment of every day is now just one long tiptoe spark of sublimity! So thanks a million, Mr.Hackett. Thanks a billion! A trillion! No, you have been priceless.
Yours,
Doc Spackman.
[ps. Don’t forget to give me the green light concerning the ‘accidental” razorblade in your wife’s cell.]
Your wife is beyond repair. She’s insane. In recent weeks she’s even resorted to using her own faeces as blusher, eye-shadow and lipstick. Can you believe it! What a nutcase. My extensive treatments have failed. She’s gar-gar. It’s “lock the door and throw away the key” time. She’s gone with the wind. With any luck she’ll top herself, saving me the hassle and you the monthly fee.
Keep this to yourself, Mr.Hackett, but with your permission I could see to it that a razorblade is “accidentally” left behind in her cell. I’m fairly certain it wouldn’t be long before the mad dragon slices herself to shreds with it, taking into account her “loopyloo” and [quite frankly] contemptible self-image problems. Please advise a.s.a.p. She’s driving me up the wall with her constant screeching and yabbering. I can fully understand why you beat the s**t out of her.
And in a roundabout way your past violence is my true purpose of writing you. Heh, it’s peculiar how things turn out. You see, I’ve started to write again. Yes, it’s true! And it’s all thanks to you, Mr.Hackett, and to a lesser extent, your filthy wife. If it wasn’t for your utterly justified backhanded slaps, your well-aimed kicks, and your face-altering headbutts [the witch deserved it: "battery is the stepfather of sustained provocation"], the creative juices within me would never have flowed again. I truly believed I had dried up for good. But no, no, no! In my arduous and exasperating attempts to treat/cure/control your batty wife’s psychosis, I found myself seriously needing to let off steam.
Yes I could’ve unscrewed my cork by visiting Milda Maple’s five-star knocking shop [it’s located downstairs/underneath Tripotoni’s Ristorante, just in case you don’t know], and yes I could’ve chosen one of Madame Maple’s sweet young cherrypoppers, retired to her private room for an allover body massage followed by an essential-oil handshank [the best orgasm 50 spondulix can buy], and yes I could’ve toddled off home twinkling like a star over Egypt, purchased a bunch of lush roses and enjoyed second helpings with my better-half, but on how many occasions do you think I’ve done that, Mr.Hackett? Well let me tell you: exactly 577 times in the past four years. I needed something different. The hanky-panky high only lasts so long.
And then it happened. Hoopla! Torch a fackin’ wigwam! Just thinking about it makes me crazy with delight! As I sat in my Roller and triggered the security gates of my mansion [you can’t be too careful these days, the country’s being overrun by scum] - it happened! Clickety-click! Just like that, from nowhere. I just knew in my balls that I was going to write something, something creative, for the first time in two friggin’ decades! And it’s all down to you, Mr.Hackett. If you hadn’t shattered your wife’s self-esteem and sent her to nutsville by t******g the living daylights out of her over several years, and if you hadn’t dragged her loathsome and broken being to me, abandoned her at my institute and not given me the opportunity to experiment on her f*****-up mind, then I doubt very much I would have ever, EVER rediscovered my creative side again!
So, Mr.Hackett, I’m writing this letter in deep and sincere gratitude to say a big THANK YOU. Every moment of every day is now just one long tiptoe spark of sublimity! So thanks a million, Mr.Hackett. Thanks a billion! A trillion! No, you have been priceless.
Yours,
Doc Spackman.
[ps. Don’t forget to give me the green light concerning the ‘accidental” razorblade in your wife’s cell.]
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