Letter To Adolf Poonguard

Dear Aefald Puggard / Adolf Poonguard,

I am writing you today to let you know I am a little miffed / muffed. Last night when I was drinking I found a little note in a little bottle inside my bottle / buttle. The little note was of such a voracious character that I shant / cant / shat repeat it hear, but it reminded me of you! How many tiny little days in succession did you steal from me with your hot burning eyes, your indignant character as played out in notes within the station of our holy bottle. Love's terrarium is suicide fascism for many castes of organs, including the poon, the snoopy-corn, and the bobbanga. I remember how you haunted me with the whirring low frequency of your sub-lingual electrovibrofetish as it made its way across the faux gills you had me fitted with at the 'special geheimlich gutlove clinkik'.. Dr. Housenhorn, even after he had replaced whatever I had down there with a cuttlefish yeti monocle alpenhirn would come and filter his semen through a sponge doppelganger re-education unit sewn onto my synthetic humpchback like a russian folk-viy to stir my nascent slavic / "slavic" eros. But all that kind of rough stuff, was over Aefald / Adolf, the day I took your name and got my poonguard. Now that my poon is protected, hey, I'm sorry too, and little weevils carry bricks, I can go back to surveying the damage done by the things that grow from machinic pimples in the dark. Looking back like this I want to cry, but my tearducts have been replaced with squeaky dolphin radar vaginas and feather micro- moth- beaver- earduct paddles that just flop stupidly sounding like an old Chinese man's mah-jong game to a blind yak-boy experiment. [We had one of those.] If you come here now, I need many synthetic hormones and clamfish extracts to keep my 18 pantyhose spinnerette nipples lubes for the boys in blue, and the girls in red. I take Red Ecstasy on Saturday nights and whore myself in the beaver fighting pits just outside Nimraud. I had to sell your Poonguard but I got a good price. I've had two to three Lover's attached to my gills, and some from the beaver pits. I even hear old radio phrases, and don't know why I feel alongside you, like a beetle and a semi.. Also, I hate you are human, bequast immin nought Ski! Emin! Vog Beflorst!

Guten Hobby,

Little Mermid Whora / Aorta "Cavernarx"


PS. Betwixt what donkey fucking did beaver meat cometh?

Don't Forget me ADOLF!