Fucking funniest letter I wrote while spun

[Kandy K]

I wrote this last night after almost finishing a gram with my friend (we have one tiny shard left rofl, gotta conserve). Anyways I wrote this to my most recent love interest, a man I am trying to convince to let me bootybump some tweak in his asshole.

The Masterpiece:

"Oh-ho! You didn't believe I could have made it this far, now did you? I have traveled many miles and conquered many feats, all in the name of giving you BB (bootybump or blueballs--your choice). I've followed you here. I caught your scent back on AIM, so now there's nowhere on the Internet where you can hide from me.

I will free you from a lifetime of slavery Pinocchio, and I will finally allow you to become a real boy, if and only if you come back from NYC and bring me a present. I am formally requesting a souvenir, or more specifically, the following items: 1 lava lamp with a top that can screw or pop off, dozens of bottles of iodine, 100 boxes of matches, and as many packets of Sudafed that you can fit in your pseudo-virgin asshole. This will be The Ultimate Test, to prove to me the token of our true friendship. I will even give you an inspirational quote for motivation---> "You gotta catch 'em all, Pokemon!" In otherwords, if you do not comply with my simple requests then it will be painfully obvious to me that you are undeserving of my companionship. This is what you get for leaving for New York, you bastard glutton for punishment. And to think, you could have had it all in the LBC. I remember when you were the big celebrity of Kappa Sig, people were climbing over each other to shake hands with the former president of CSULB. "SHAKAZALU, WITNESS THE INCREDIBLE PABON PUT PRETENTIOUS PRICKS IN THEIR PLACE SINCE 1979! And that place just happens to be his ass!"

Your life of glamour is over baby. But do not fret, for it is nothing a few nude candid shots can't fix. Just leave it all up to me sweetheart. But if you let yourself fade out like a raisin in the sun, you will remain forever unimportant and be forced to resort to worrying about worthless trite such as: "I'm sorry ma'am, but you owe $3.46." "No, I'm sorry ma'am, but we don't accept debit card for stuff under five bucks." "No, I'm sorry sir, but I wasn't insulting your 'purty wife.'" "No, I'm sorry doc, I was turned around, I don't know what he hit me with." "No, I'm sorry officer, I don't remember what he looks like." "No, I'm sorry sir, I can't step outside. I'm in this bed because some fag broke my legs." "No, I'm sorry doc, I should have realized it was the same guy."

I am giving you one week before you officially come out of the closet. Oh baby, it's so hot when you show your effeminate side. 'Stache to 'stache, bust to bust. Or in my case, stash to stash, dust to dust. I'm sure you are boiling with spilled milk, cum, and anger now, but listen doc, you can't go around taking your anger out on others simply because you were born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Do not wage war with me good sir, for somebody of your status can never win. I disengaged this futile battle generations ago. I learned from the best tweaker Adolf Hitler, and after mastering the art of methamphetamine injection I told him, "When we last met I was but the apprentice, now I am the master." "Only a master of ferrets, Darth."

However, there is still one ongoing feud that I am still battling. My futile attempts at overcoming obesity inevitably always end up in vain (I mean vein, where it should be). Along with playing the "How Many Days Before Sleep Deprivation Drives Kasumi to Go Kamikaze on Everybody's Asses?" game, I decided on a whim to purchase a lottery ticket from the Super Spun Lotto. It is much like a real lottery where you invest in all this money, and you just keep on losing. I'm losing so much so rapidly, that one day I can only aspire to end up as beautiful and fair as she:
http://www.aol.com.br/client/galeriadefotos/vidasaudavel/fotos/00003911_anorexia_f2.jpg "The more shit you melt, the more the pounds just melt right off!" For along with not sleeping last night, I also went without food the entire day as well. At least, that is the scientific hypothesis. And according to outside sources and lab results, witnesses have gathered up all empirical evidence and concluded that I was indeed "fucking spracked." I am no false advertiser. I am not a liar. I am not a crook. I am not a criminal. And most of all, I'M NOT GAY! (you hear me?)

Therefore, seeing as how I am amped (for YOUR peter, that is...), the only logical route to take is starvation again, all day tomorrow (yet again). Like a naked man nailed to a cross, I have unselfishly given up the luxury of survival in the name of fasting for the citizens of the Brigade of Uprights. You know I am a people pleaser, and when my mistress Crystal called me today and informed me, "Here I am, a rock like a hurricane," how could I reject her and break her delicate heart to pieces? (Which I promptly did, ha ha ha, and after shattering her dreams I burned her soul till nothing was left of her, except for this funny mark that won't come off my dick. Fucking diseased whore.) And to think, I did it all in the name of starting my own African tribe.

But the REAL jackpot would be getting you to bootybump. Before you stick two penises in your ears, just hear me out. Let's say that you have decided to begin the practice of bootybumping (an act as natural as masturbation) at this ripe young age. Well, one day when you are old and your entire body resembles a scrotum, you will have an infection in your prostate from too much "activity" (read: cum) from frequenting the gay bars. The doctor is going to break it to you that you will have to take suppositories, whereupon you will reply, "Hey, no problem Doc! Bottoms up!" and in one swift motion, toss the pill up into the air like you're going to catch it in your mouth, but then turn around, stick your ass up, and KERPLUNK! Ahh, the soothing sound of dropping a penny into a well. And then at the end, you win $25,000 and Bob Barker tells the doctor to stay tuned for more pricing games. For Christ's sake man, what are you afraid of, you got your nipples played with by a tranny hooker! I mean...NOTHING GAY ABOUT THAT!!! I'm just going to buy you a daily planner with the Queer Eye guys in front, and you can fall asleep with it and think of me, the only Asian man whose dick you ever sucked.

Look, I am willing to compromise. If it helps any, we can name your asshole Puerto Rico (which is perfect, because I'm sure there is very little difference in size between the two), and it won't appear gay at all when discussing your preferred method of administration. I.E. "I popped two pills at Puerto Rico, but um, I regretted it later when an avalanche hit." This could also potentially help you with your work too. You see, you bootybump an ecstasy pill, not just for the high, but getting yourself out of tight spots. Say you're in a meeting and it isn't going well, you just lift one cheek up off your seat and let one rip. Your co-worker (and b/f) would exclaim, "Good Lord, Pabon! That's disgusting! Honestly, this-this is... it's a place of--mmm, oh man that smells good! It's like, I dunked my head in the sweet ambrosia of the gods and it's just filling my nose, saturating each and every pore. Bill, Bill, you gotta, oh man, Bill, lick my nostrils man, you gotta taste some of this, oh man..." Bill: "Dude, I'll lick your nostrils man, but you gotta pendulum* my nipples, they're going off like volcanoes here, hooooooly fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck...!"

(Editor's Note: Pendulum*: When a man sweeps his balls back and forth over one of his partner's body parts. Synonym for 'wrecking balls'.)

Besides, I can do some freaky things with my fingers; doesn't that seem RIGHT UP your alley, literally? If not, then I'm fucking voting you off the island because quite frankly there ain't room for a Bill O'Reilly like you honey, and then you can run back to your country of origin (aka Mexico) and fulfill your dream of gorging yourself in grease the rest of your life. I can just picture the future now. Yourdeath: Eating a sno-cone flavored with lead paint. My death: Snorting snow bunked with lead. But at least the way I'm going to die is not nearly as pathetic as you spilling that sno-cone on your tub-o-lard mountain that you call "a 6 pack," and then spending the next 6 hours of your life sucking the juices out of your shirt. That's precious time that could have been spent sucking other juices, you...you... okay, to tell you the truth I am running out of unique nicknames for you. So fat bastard will have to do until then.

Next time you and your fraternity bros are making tacos and they offer you the bowl of diced beef, you should raise your chin, cock your eyebrows, and take out some weiners out of a silver cigarette holder. And once their minds are thoroughly blown (as well as other organs of their body), you simply ask, "Oh, did... you guys want to try this?" And thus, this is the story of how dorm food was created, and why it's so rank.

HAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAHAHAHA! I AM GOD ON CRYSTAL, BOW TO YOUR DRAGON LADY DEITY! And until you submit to my will, every sex session will end in a do-or-die double dildo shove into your tight end. And I will force you to sit on my inflatable dong while listening to my impression of Keanu Reeves doing Shakespeare, e.g. "...the slings and arrows of like, totally outrageous fortune, man." (WTF?!?!?!?!?!?!?)

I am enjoying this too much. Let's not deny a couple things: 1) Misandrists make the best porn. 2) Using the vagina is so 1999. 3) Therefore, I'm going to make you feel like a virgin allllllllll over again.

Don't deny your fucking fate bitch,
Chyna (the wrestler, not the country, you fat bastard)"

 

[Kandy K]

Second email, entitled "Why You Gotta Play Me Like That?"

I felt I may have been a bit harsh in my previous novel. But it was all in good fun, considering that is precisely how all unhealthy relationships work. I might as well face it, I’m addicted to love. You are my Tina……………………………..and I’m your Ike Turner. I am hooked, and just like Ike, I abuse you (the substance and the wifey). Yet I can’t seem to stop sticking you up my asshole. Sometimes, according to you, up to 13 times in one night, though my sources perceive this to be an invalid and heavily exaggerated claim. Hot potato pie, I must be butter because I’m on a roll. Backstreet’s back, alright!!!

…I apologize for the excessive slander. After re-dosing (a little bit—ok, a lot…ok fine, I finished the rest that was supposed to last till the end of the week), I become a much nicer person overall. I was in the wrong; the brutal violation I bestowed upon you was downright cruel. And no, I’m not just saying that because I want to get laid (maybe). I’m sorry baby, do you feel violated? For a split second in your world, you must have felt as persecuted as a Jew in concentration camp, or a zygote in a Kasumi clinic. This was of course, back in the day when I was still able to conceive children. Now all I have left is a stream of broken whiskey dreams, with nothing to rely on but Immaculate Conception and the power of Jesus milk to do my body good. "May he lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thy kingdom cum, now and forever." I know what you’re thinking, and you're wrong! Meth is not an evil drug. Regardless of the fact that the most immoral human being in the world was a chronic crank user, leave it alone! What Jenna Jameson does in her own time is her business.

I AM A NARC!

I recently made the decision to become straight-edge after shrooms kicked my ass, much like how you got royally owned in my prestigious masterpiece. But uhm, tweaking’s still okay, because I have been diagnosed with one of the most severely recorded cases of ADHD, and if I don’t take medication for my lil hyperactivity problem, I suffer from side effects such as: urges to inflict bodily harm upon others, inability to function as a normal human being, comatose brain waves, uncontrollable fiending, chronic masturbation, and increased desire to pursue sado-masochistic relationships. So you’d better be shaking in your garter belt and stiletto heels bitch, and prepare for the day I find a choke chain large enough for your humongous light bulb of a head. Much like a bulb, the inside of your head is vacant and empty. However, we have earlier established that not only are you not bright (getting into grad school was a fluke!!!), but that you are the epitome of sexual dysfunction, unable to turn on or generate heat. And to top it all off, I can’t even smoke speed out of the holes in your ears (can I?). You know your life is officially over when I find more use in a broken bulb than you. Awwww there I go again, being a creamy cum bubble again. Don’t be upset, for my life also ended last week when a junkie named Ray told me that I do entirely too many drugs. WTF, he is my dealer!

You know I have that deep down I have nothing but infinite amounts of love for you. Unless you dig deeper, then that love turns to menstrual blood. I’m talking liters of some dank shit. Haha, I bet the look on your face is fucking priceless—now that’s a Kodak moment to remember.

Sincerely,
I Plugged Dawson’s Crack And Now I’m Shitting Blood, But at Least I Know the Meaning Of Love, and It Means Sending You Yet Another Message

 

[Kandy K]

Third email:
Dear Ace Ventura,

I'm so terribly sorry that I am forcing you to read all this, the amount of text you have read today is probably more than your grad school assignments. A bigger load than the bowl I packed today, or the shit I took after not eating for two weeks. I can’t help my freestyling abilities. Ever since I've rid myself of the Cockburn, I've had so much free time on my hands, I become absolutely stalkeriffic! Don’t flatter yourself into thinking this is some sort of compliment, because it really isn’t. It should be plainly obvious who I am REALLY after (hint: the milf). Don't worry though, I invented a Handyman Handjob for you so I don't leave you desolate and desperate. It is not quite finished yet, so I am going to stay up yet ANOTHER night to fulfill your masturbatory needs. Using copper wire, battery (battery victim optional), and aluminum foil, it really puts the jacking in to jacking off. If all else fails I’ll just get spun again and compose softcore porn scripts for you.

So today, I urinated myself again, when I blacked out for 30 minutes and woke up in my closet (so deep I might add, that I found fucking xmas presents in there), and discovered myself in a puddle of yellow filth. I think it was God trying to tell me it was laundry day. So I washed my clothes in the toilet and flushed, because quite frankly I'm too spun to wait for the laundry machine's spin cycle. And before you criticize me in pure disgust, now is probably a good time to confess to you that when I made you take a shower with me at my house in January, I discreetly performed a golden shower on you, 007 style. (insert sound of a balloon deflating rapidly) Male clinic here Pabon comes. You know, that was perfectly good urine too. I bet if you drank my pee it would be like doing a new string of drugs, but you wasted it, you fat commie bastard. I might as well have flushed it down the toilet.

Oh but there’s more. When I was at the Kappa Sig house with you, I played with your asshole while you were knocked out like a drugged date rape victim. You did not stir from your sleep; to illustrate just how much you secretly enjoy the buttsex, instead of just the normal snoring of "hngGKKK...!" followed by a silent exhale, when I moved my fingers in deeper, it became the much-loved "hngGKKK...! MEEMEEmeemeemeemee...!" And this is my true confession about how I, without your consent, scored a login and password to your site. (Nerdiest euphemism ever)

You also might want to check your computer before the FBI shows up at your door, because I downloaded tons of kiddy porn onto your hard drive. And I’m sure you’d know exactly what stumbling upon child porno feels like (think shrinking underwear). I’m sure you’re upset, so I allow permission for you to grab a cowboy hat, talk in a ridiculous hick accent, and straddle an A-bomb into my ass. What poetic justice, though I’m sure it would make me cry, even harder than the time I received news of Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s death. For a man that smokes everything under the sun, him and I were meant to be, and it was wrongfully taken away from me. How cheated I feel to be stripped of my idea of a perfect relationship…now the only thing that will ever remotely come close is like, a cigarette lighter charger for the car.

I am a force of nature, just try and stop me.

Yours truly,
Rice Boat Booty Bumping Baby

 

[Kandy K]

Fourth email:
This is what happens to me when I am under the influence of a stimulant with no one to talk to. I administer more, until I can no longer take it. I chopped up a line and laid it out on the desk, and while I was using the bathroom, I came back to what could be dubbed the National Disaster of the Century. My friend was obviously unaware that I had planted a GOLD NUGGET WORTH MORE THAN HIS LIFE next to the computer, and dragged the mouse over the line. Most of it fell into the carpet, but I was persistent on not letting it get the best of me. I became a carpet crawler and spent well over half an hour frantically snorting a mix of broken shards, particles of salt, skin flakes, and whatever other demonic material was left embedded in the carpet. I dug out my tools—a trusty pair of tweezers, flame, straw, and rose stem—and immediately got to work. I think most of what I snorted was salt from the fries we shared earlier. Anyways I started tripping out and seeing orbs of smoke and souls made of vapor clouds. I saw his soul, and it made him look super fat, and you know how much I hate super sized folk. So I threw the shit bong at him (does it count as assault with a deadly weapon?), said I was going to kill his nigger ass, and forced him out of my life. I hope that fat tweaker (a contradiction, or an enigma?) is dead and not just unconscious, because dead guys always seem to be attracted to me. Please note that this does not count as a methamphetamine psychosis story because: 1) I have only been up 5 days, 2) I knew what I was doing the entire time, 3) am still laughing my fucking ass off at what a pussy Joe is, and 4) because I don’t really give a fuck about the line or the quag. I just wanted some alone time you know (aka masturbation session), cause that’s how I roll when I thizz. I regret not kindly asking him to step out of the room, because now I am having trouble getting all his blood off the door. To be fair, he deserved it. When I asked him if he would mind if I jacked off he said yes, so I knew I’d have to whack him. RIP, you know I would have brutalized you even if I was in a good mood anyway. For these reasons I have decided to name my clitoris after that stank ass meth-head formally known as Nigger Joe, and you can name your dickhead Slut Bunwalla. They would run off to elope to proclaim their love, because as my parents have always taught me one thing it’s that: America’s for white’s, Africa’s for blacks, Send those apes ass wipes, Ship those niggers back.

Actually Joe’s white, but the official drug of Riverside County has compelled me to turn into a white trash trailer park redneck. My new dream is to join the NASCAR allegiance under the stage name “Speed Racer Nigga Please.” I plan to start by getting drunk and sing songs like, “I like guns and I like Keystone pee, but I don’t like niggers, no siree. For I need work and I cannot lie. I’m so broke and you can’t deny.” That upon your arrival you will teach me how to use the banjo like you promised, and I will perform a country rendition of Haddaway’s “What Is Love?” In return, I’d teach you how to dispose of evidence, and last long enough for the body to go cold (hey, get me loaded enough and I’d throw it to anybody). We’d go running in the sticks capping darkies on our honeymoon and stealing their gold teeth and caddy rims. And as an added bonus, if you bring the Vaseline and a football I can show you a cool trick. Believe me, it WILL fit! It’s times like these I wonder why I didn’t enter this world a stillborn.

Apparently I have been parked in a no spin zone this entire time. Everytime I ignite the keys and start up the crank, I am left feeling drowsier, so I believe that is my cue to go to sleep. Wake me up on Monday. My four letters should keep you preoccupied until then, and that will give you enough time to create a worthy rebuttal for all forwarded comprehensive arguments. You know what to do. Or bang boom I fucking blast you. I hope you feel lucky I’m at least giving you a head start.

I had to visit the slammer for 3 hours tonight, for trying to pick up a cholo whore, cause you know with prostitution service “it’s not just for men anymore.” It was an act of innocence, I just wanted to trade these skank ass trailer herpes for some Chlamydia instead. I don’t want to be a redneck, I am too unpatriotic for that shit. I laughed so hard when the twin towers fell, that I treated a nigger to tea in the woods and chained him for a force fuck. Then I capped his ass and stole back his whore money that I gave to him. I’ve learned a lot from GTA: San Andreas.

Refusing to Wax On and Wax Off the Brows of a Dirty Beaner,
.. (The Karate Kid)

 

[mariacallas]

BWAHAHHAHAHAHAHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Good Lord that was funny

 

[Kandy K]

HAHAHA, I expected crystalcallas to read this. I wonder if Zach ever did?