Dear Count Rabindok,
I hope this letter finds you well. The last we spoke your peasants had become a bit of a nuisance, if I remember correctly. Something about the taxes you levied on wheat or some such nonsense. Anyhow, I hope you have quelled any seditious activity that may have upset your quaint operation. I’ve always told you that the people of Boise, ID would never accept serfdom in 2011. Polygamy, yes. Execution, yes. Dog-marriage, soon possibly. Indentured servitude, certainly not. But you went ahead and did it anyway.
Things are wonderful here in Sheridan, WY. My roommate Smitty and I have recently moved apartments and are now residing in a beautiful 60,000 sq. ft. abandoned library. If you recall, this particular library is the one where most of patients from the Hempstead Elderly Home died during a routine book-rental-trip-turned-cult-massacre in 2002. All of the news outlets had the story if you recall. The library is presently quite haunted. The silver lining is that we’ve been able to stay here rent free with only minimal disturbances from the local police and some insufferably pretentious raccoons. They think they know everything about everything.
I am writing to you now, all-powerful Count, to request a favor. You see I have recently attempted to join the Sheridan YMCA adult volleyball league. My involvement in this league is still somewhat of a puzzle. I believe I may have stumbled into the YMCA one Tuesday afternoon, reeking of cheap whiskey and medical grade bleach (It was my lunch break after all). I saw a sign-up sheet for volleyball that caught my eye. And right then and there I thought that the world had given me a path. I would become a famous volleyball player like Rufus Something or Brittany.
However, when I went to write my name on the list a man, his name was Scott or Franklin or Balthazar or Eskimo Twin Doggy Puppy or something short like that, asked me to please leave. I insisted on a reason why. Was it because he was scared I would dominate the league? Could he not handle the competition? Count, you know I am a humble man. But when it involves sports that require jumping I am quite confident. Why just last year I won a long-jump contest. My chief opponents were all horses too! This made my victory that much sweeter and their subsequent assassinations much less emotional (not for the Farmer!)
The objecting man replied that he was not scared of competing with me or intimidated by my mad hops. Rather, he instructed me that the establishment I was in was a local branch of Chase Bank and not a gymnasium. I scoffed as I normally do at such outright lies, but it did make me question why there was a CoinStar machine on the playing surface.
Needless to say, I put my tank-top back on, stole several lollipops and walked back home to my Ghost Library. Smitty was waiting patiently there. He soothed my mood with a wonderful foot-rub, followed by some light screaming.
My point Count is that I need you to contact Scott or Bill or Methusela or Skinny Skinny Dumpling Child or whatever, on my behalf and please have him place me on the roster. I am ready to perform and will do whatever it takes to win. And when I say whatever it takes, you know that I am serious. I don’t wish to remind you of the “soccer match” we played together in 1991 with the lead singer of C.&C. Music Factory.
The Police will never find him. Mark my words.
I am sorry for my fractured thought process here Count. As you know, I tend to get nervous when I type with my feet. Such pressure to perform!
Please help me.
– Alan “Smitty” Gibbons
P.S. – Have you seen Modern Family this year? Wonderful!