Dear Mr. R. Carpenter,
I figured I'd email you instead of playing another round of fuckin' phone tag. Until that sweet day comes, when I can finally own a female cyborg with a sweet pair of tits and a brain that is only programmed to insert my sweet nuts into her mouth all day long,….technology will remain annoying.
And I'll continue to complain.
Anyways Han Solo, lets get down to business: You answered my ad for the dot matrix printer. I took a picture of it and attached it below. I assume you want the printer as a collectable? Or you've just been living under a metamorphic rock for the past 15 years? Fuck you're not some weird hippy just getting into the technology scene are you? If so, you better not be stonned when you show up. I'm allergic to marijuana and even if I smell it I'll
break out into hives and most likely pass out.
I'm selling the beast for 25 buck-a-roos. I'm actually surprised I got an answer from the Ad. I was expecting I'd have to suck a dick just to get rid of it. You know what I'm saying? Hey, don't get any ideas now ya child lover!
My address is 45 Churchill Meadows St. Enter through the side door and take the stairs down into the basement. Whatever you do, DON'T RING THE BUZZER! The sound carries up through the house and the old woman upstairs is sensitive to sound. She'll shit her pants or something. And trust me, we'll smell it!
Say, I was wondering – why don't you come over for around 8pm tomorrow ya diary writing fairy. There's a few things about the printer I'll have to show ya and perhaps afterwards you can stick around for a bit. You watch Deal or No Deal? That show is God.
Sound good Frodo?
I got a sleeping bag incase the party kicks into overtime. You never know when a couple of dudes get together eh? Things could get fucked and we might have to call up an escort or something.
Bring over some microwave popcorn and I'll throw in some free ink for your printer.
See ya then ya HOMOsapien,