Hello you,Yes you, I can see you hiding behind the lush velvet curtain that hangs ever-so casually at the corner of my drawing-room window. Did you really think such a cartoonish ruse could baffle the Germanic wit of T. Archibald Foulke III?! Having been forced to read Hamlet by my father at a young age, to prepare me for the certainty that his brother would murder him and attempt to steal his land and titles, I am fully prepared to stab wildly into those pillowy drapes of plush fabric without first checking to see who is behind them.
So many questions race through my mind as I near you, emergency skewer in hand. Why did you break into my palatial manor? What do you want from me? And why is my penis so damn limp?
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| Sometimes it's just my servants, though |
Usually discovering a would-be assassin, an almost daily occurrence for a man of my status and position, causes my penis to engorge fully, ballooning to ludicrous proportions in order to intimidate and demoralize my foe. My four inches of Anglican fury should be bursting forth in erect glory ready to batter you mercilessly into submission.
Yet here I stand, my penis flaccid and lifeless as can be.
No it’s not you. You are the perfect victim, naively hiding in the first place I would check: anywhere. And still, the veins that crisscross my manly knob neither quiver nor throb in ecstatic anticipation of the looming bloodshed. Most unusual.
Equally, the fault could not lie with me. As the last in a long line of great Foulke men, not only am I inherently a vestige of male virility, but I follow the strictest daily health regimen for optimal results. I don’t force nearly three pounds of powdered Viagra down my urethra with a tiny wooden spoon every splinter filled morning for the simple pleasure of it.
No, my mystery assailant, from this most scientifically calculated routine I expect the most adamantine rigidity from my penis in any number of scenarios, from forced sodomy, to one of the other kinds of sodomy, also forced.
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| Not even the mighty potato is immune to nerves. |
Perhaps you are making me nervous. Maybe if I pull it out, I can choke some life into the little gentleman. Nope? Damn.
I see that you have yet to utter a sound or move an inch. Do you still believe I have not noticed you? I assure you that I have been sneaking upon you with catlike poise this entire time and that I am nearly close enough to impale you upon my man-spike were it properly inflated. If you were capable of detecting my stealthy presence, you would, at this very moment, be able to feel the roaring heat from my body envelop you, accompanied by olfactory hints of raspberry preserve and ether carried upon my humid and ever pungent breath.
Is that a stirring in my loins I feel?
Ah, drat no. It is my tapeworm, who I had into my belly to keep the government away from my gold, awakening from his mid-afternoon slumber. Why must you taunt me so God?!
Alas, I have dearly enjoyed this mostly one sided repartee but the time has come for us to part ways. However, before I depart I would like to take a moment to thank you sir for your tacit kindness and sympathetic ear, now DIE, DIE YOU BRIGAND HA HA HA!
Yours in Christ,
T. Archibald Foulke III
P.S. I will send your widow my condolences. And by condolences I mean letter bombs and by widow I mean your entire extended family