
by Chloe O'Brian
Dear Spenser,
I read with great interest your recent article entitled "Dude, I Wouldn't Hit That Again", which obviously referred to our sorry little tryst. I have decided to respond point by point.
"Yes, I 'knocked boots' with the famous Chloe O'Brian, woop-de-doo."
That's right, 'famous'. Say it again. The fact remains that you will always be the Garfunkel to my Simon. The Tito to my Michael. The Hall to my Oates. Okay, scratch that last one but you get the picture.
"I knew Chloe was messed up when she kept asking me to do her 'binary style'. "
And I knew you were messed up when you asked me to put on a UPS uniform and scream, "This is what brown can do for you!" while I tagged you with that strap-on. WTF?!?!?
"I tried to dismiss her cries for 'Edgar'."
Umm, dude... that was you who kept crying out for Edgar. I can see the attraction though.
"Some people at CTU think Chloe has Asperger syndrome, well I think she's just retarded."
My mom says that I am perfectly normal. It just takes me a little while to warm up in social situations. And don't confuse "Aspergers" the syndrome, with "Ass Burgers" the male strip club that you used to dance at while you "worked your way through college". What's the going rate on a reach-around these days anyhow?
"Then, the only way I got her to go out with me was to take her to see The Star Wars Kid when he spoke at a local Dairy Queen."
He's a genius and you are just jealous.
"When I get out of jail, Chloe and I will never, ever have a future together."
Don't you mean "if" you get out of jail? It's not often that the inmates get to play a little game of "prime rib & meat thermometer" with a J-Crew model. You better believe they'll be doing their best to try and keep your fine ass in there. And if you do get out, my guess is your future will be spent endlessly exercising your sphincter muscles with the hope that someday, somehow you will have a somewhat normal bowel movement again.
"In fact, I wouldn't hit it with Behrooz's junk."
Hmm. As luck would have it I was thumbing through Playgirl's Muslim Machismo issue the other day and lo and behold, there was a picture of our boy Behrooz in all his glory. Let's just say that you are about a falafel and a half short of measuring up, little fella.
Here's my advice to you Spenser. Thank your lucky stars that you even had a chance to get with this. However, there is only one guy out there who will ever be able to wipe the scowl off of my face. Security concerns prevent me from revealing his name, but I can tell you that it rhymes with Crack Sour. Now step.

by Spenser Wolff
1 comment:
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