Dear Sir,

Greetings. I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits, so that it ruins an otherwise lovely day. Then I hope it crushes your soul and extinguishes a cigarette in your eye. My name is Copernicus Thunderbird and I am about to sue the shit out of you.

I've been a tenant in the dumpster of your establishment for two months now, and I have some serious grievances with you. As a motel manager, you have certain responsibilities regarding the upkeep of your premises. According to Trans-Dimensional Law 419.7 section C, paragraph 4, all human dwelling places must be kept free of poltergeists at all times. You are in violation of this law. Your dumpster, where I am currently residing, is haunted.

Trash dumpster behind a motel building
Your ghost scarecrow has failed, and you will pay.

Now I am not by nature prejudiced against ghosts. Many of my friends are ghosts. Most of them, in fact. It would be different if this were, say, a friendly ghost like that Casper fellow on the TV. But no, the spirit which possesses my, or more specifically, YOUR dumpster, is a violent, murderous asshole.

Casper the Friendly Ghost flying through a haunted town
You have clearly been deceived by the childish portrayal of ghosts.
I can handle the verbal abuse and the physical torture. That I can forgive. What I don't care for so much is the constant brutal ghost rape. I can assure you, it's not pleasant. And I've been raped by a lot of things before: clowns, bears, robots, leprechauns, aliens, cult leaders, Mormons, an ostrich… but let me tell you something: ghost rape is the worst.

I tried filing a restraining order, but apparently those are only effective against the living. So I'm suing the police. Then I tried looking up exorcists in the phonebook, but they don't list any. I'm suing the phonebook, too.

I've also encountered numerous problems with your staff. (Not so much relating to the whole poltergeist thing; they're just dicks in general.) For example, that mulatto boy with the funny hair and the gimp leg… what's his name? The one who cleans the pool. Whatever, I don't like him. He's dishonest, and if there's two things I can't stand, it's being carnally violated by phantom tentacles as unholy laughter resonates inside my brain like a swarm of burning locusts, and dishonesty. He told me he could score some ketamine. If I had a dollar for every dick I sucked for ketamine I'd have a mansion. Or some ketamine. Either way, pretty good deal.

I don't like the maid, either. Not sure why, just don't like her face. That, and she's always screaming at me in Mexican. She hit me with a broom once. It was rude.

Ketamine pills and powder vials
Your staff is utterly vile, and I don't mean that in the ketamine way.

But getting back to the ghost infestation. Now I don't know what kind of shady operation you've got going here, but this place is definitely evil and you should be ashamed of yourself. I don't know if you're aware of this, but according to Iron Maiden and the Bible, 666 is the number of the beast. Did your boss think about that when he named this place? Did you know that the dumpster is full of Indian skeletons? I'm living in a goddamn Indian burial ground here.

I made a list of reasons why I hate you:

  1. Portal to Hell in the Jacuzzi.
  2. Three-headed hellhound that keeps humping my leg.
  3. The maid's a bitch.
  4. I'm covered in scorpions.
  5. Harpies and goat demons are stealing my cigarettes.
  6. Ghost rape.
  7. Still really pissed off about number 6.
  8. Shitty free coffee.
  9. There's a strange, knife-wielding gnome calling himself Ted roaming the parking lot.
  10. Ted rides a rabid honey badger.

The guy from Animal Control doesn't care. I said, "What about the jellyfish?!" He said he couldn't see the jellyfish. I said, "How the fuck did you even get this job?!" He said, "I'm a mailman." I said, "Well good, cuz you make a lousy dog catcher!" I can't fucking stand incompetence.

The worst part is the lack of concern from the other tenants. The snooty ones, with their fancy "rooms" and "beds." They just watch. The staff, the prom teens, the crack whores… nobody wants to help the hobo getting brutally dumpster-raped by the spirits of the dead. Even when Bill Murray was throwing that keg party in room 312 last week, he did nothing. I looked him in the eyes and said "Help me." He ran. Bill Murray is afraid of ghosts.

Bill Murray is afraid of ghosts while holding a whiskey drink
"I ain't fuckin' with no ghost."
One guy even filmed it. Said he was a ghost hunter for YouTube. What the fuck is a YouTube? Do I get royalties on that? I'm suing them, too.

Shit, that reminds me… I need to call Frankie about my royalty check for that sex tape I did with Britney Spears. Nice kid, but dumb as dirt. You know I once watched her blow a unicorn? A goddamn unicorn! Glitter jizz and everything. Most pure and magical creature in the universe. Now he's got the clap. That was a fun Christmas. Sometimes I miss being a Hollywood meth cook. Good times.

But right now, I'm suing you fuckers. So let's focus on that.

Now, I've been talking this case over with my attorney Gorlahm the Shape-Shifter, also known as the Desolate One, and he thinks I should ask for one hundred million dollars and a handjob. I told him I could do without the HJ, but he says it's important to the case because there's nothing more degrading than being forced by a court of law to whack off a hobo. I had to agree with him on the matter.

If you'd like to avoid a scandal, I'm willing to settle out of court for seventeen dollars and a cup of coffee. If you'd care to discuss— OH SHIT, HE'S BACK.

Well, I gotta go. Hope you die.

Copernicus Thunderbird, Homeless Lunatic Wizard