Thursday, April 02, 2009

Response to Goody's final letter

Read article here

Dear Goody,

I was moved to tears after reading your letter to your sons which someone, from the enlightened fraternity that forces down our throats nuggets from the lives of trash-celebrities like you, had posted in an article.

I am not your son. But you know – I was a child once, and child is the father of man, and all men are brothers, hence, I am the brother son and father of everyone you know and in a few of these associations I do qualify as your son. If nothing else, I have the right to comment on anything that is put in public space – so you better buy the son theory instead of making things difficult for both of us.

So here is my response to your letter.

“Dear Bobby and Freddie, I have asked for this book to be made so that when you are older, you can remember just how much fun we had. I thank God that we made the most of our time together and I treasure the moments we shared," the letter reads.”

Moreover, I have asked this letter to be made public (not asking explicitly for it to be kept private amounts to the same since Goody, more than any other person, understood how low the media can go for the sensational and the mawkish) so that I can continue to bask in undeserved limelight even beyond the grave.

"These are my most precious memories. Some person much wiser than me once said that if you never discovered something you would die for, then you haven't lived. Well, you are both proof that I have lived. I will love you always. Mummy," concludes the poignant letter.

A person wiser than the person wiser than you, Goody (which includes practically everybody ), said that life has no meaning. Refer to post below.
And even Hitler is proof that someone lived. The only proof there is that you fucked and conceived – period.
You can’t love them anymore Goody – you are dead. That is the purpose of death – to stop people from doing anything eternally so, and embarrass themselves by making these private letters public only once in the event of their death.
And to the drafter of this article – don’t fucking tell me what is poignant and what is not. Just write this article in an objective third person as you ought to. If you would have asked, I think sticking a red hot poker up your ass is poignant.

Glad to know that we’ll never hear from you again (Unless – shudder – the media keeps snooping and digging these precious letters from you),

Yours sincerely,

Bland Spice

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