My Syphlitic Friend,

I fear for your sanity. I am afraid that it is more than likely that some wife-borne illness had addled your brain and unhinged your mind.

Let me run you through the events of last Wednesday.

I was at home, tremulously waiting for the doom which was, in turn, waiting for me. I could only sit and imagine with horror the horrors of wife-dom and of pinapple-syrup-dom which were about to visit me horribly. The door bell rang with its typical nautical theme, sung by no other than Michael. I walked, slowly at first, then more slowly toward the end. I turned the gorgon-headed handle of my main-front-door twice removed. There, sitting on the welcome mat (which I had clevely prefixed with 'un' while waiting for your wife), was your dog Mephisto holding a kiwi tween its teeth. A kiwi!

Proposterous!

G.

P.S. I have sent over my wife to have a look at you. As you know she had recently graduated with honours from the University of Zanzibar in Wife-Borne Diseases.

Your Thanks are not needed.

Nor Wanted.

Yours-ish

G.

P.S. I apologise for the fact that I ended and signed the letter twice, it must have been an oversight and it will not happen again.

Yours,

G.

P.S. Bollocks

G.