FOAD #5

Don't you wish people would just say what they mean, instead of beating around the bush like this:

Sir, (Previously, I had typed “Dear Sir,” but I found I could not stomach it.)

Your placement of letters on a page, though strewn together in lengths of words, I cannot bring myself to admit as being any kind of known form of writing—not even terribly wrought gibberish, which would be considered intellectual stimulus in comparison to whatever it is you thought to send me on sheets of 8x11 typing paper. In fact, the reason only two sheets of that mauled assortment of 700 plus pages you claimed to be a manuscript have been returned to you, is that out of the graciousness of my heart, I have found better uses for it: Origami (swans and frogs are my forte), sailor hats, coffee coasters, absorbents for oil spills, birdcage lining, puppy pee pee pads, etc.—though I did find it quite abrasive for use as toilet paper, and I blame you for any paper cuts that resulted from the use of it.

And now, because I relish saying it: I must wholeheartedly decline accepting your pile of typed fecal discharge for representation. In fact, you might have heard my declaration of NON-acceptance all the way in the cesspool of your dwelling as I yelled it from my rooftop—and my neighbor’s rooftop, his neighbor’s rooftop, my favorite restaurant’s rooftop, my banker’s rooftop, and assorted other rooftops. Of course, that was done in between all the laughter.

Sincerely Most Aggravated to Have Read Your…Oh, I Still Can’t Say It,

Agent