>>> The Lady's Shave
By staff writer NG Hatfield

March 22, 2006

To Whom It May Concern:

Okay, motherfucker, I know you stole my iPod, but I’ll level with you: I’m going to let you plead your case. Only, good luck doing it while I’m yelling, “SHUT YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU’RE TALKING TO ME!!” and smacking you in the face every time your lips part. You know what? Fuck it. I’ll just pull your fucking tongue out with an elaborate tongue-pulling instrument. I’m not sure what yet, but I know it’s going to involve Wesley Snipes, dental floss, and a flock of angry geese, and it’s going to hurt.

Then, after I pay Wesley and send the geese off to Canada, I’m going to hack out your eyeballs with cold butter-knives previously stored up Hilary Clinton’s ass. At which point I’ll soak your bloody eye sockets in corrosive acid and mash the balls back into your forehead with rubber mallets. No, no…not rubber mallets…Whack-a-Mole Hammers. Yes. Then, I’ll liquefy your nose with a corroded soldering gun and give it to a bum on the street so he can trade it for some scotch or Keno. You might not be able to smell, taste or see, but you’ll be able to listen to my playlists: “Bubble Bath Jams” and “The Best of REO Speedwagon.” Exactly what you wanted, eh motherfucker?

“When Oprah has you squashed under her enormous ass, I’m going to feed her chocolate-covered laxatives. Don’t worry, I won’t let her shit too much on you.”

At this point you may think that because you merely stole my iPod, I would let you off there. Not so fast. I’m not setting you free at this point. I’m only just beginning. You see, you not only have 5000 of my songs now, you have my complete collection of poems, short stories, and child pornography…and that, you fucking bastard, is worth more than any part of your body, mind or soul.

I’m not that bad, what? Well, then, I’m going to snip parts of your spinal cord with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. I’ll impair your ability to steal again, scratch your balls, and eat asshole—something I’m sure you do, you fucking bastard. How’s that for bad? Then, I’ll soak your bloody cheeks in rubbing alcohol and give you a shave with a Mach 4 razor…without lubrication. Oh yes, speaking of without lubrication, when I find you, I’m going to stick a squash so far up your ass that your kidneys will come out your nipples. Then I’ll amuse myself with it like Play-Doh. I’ll make a voodoo doll of you with your Kidney Play-Doh and stick it in the microwave. Then, when it’s on fire, I’ll take a piss on it. Then on you, to make sure my point came across crystal clear, with a tinge of yellow. But look on the bright side champ! You might smell like piss and not be able to walk for the rest of your life, but you’ll be able to rock out to my playlists “Power Hour Fun!” and “Walkin’ on Sunshine!” Well, not “Walkin’ on Sunshine!” Hahahaha! Fucker!

While you sit in extreme pain, I’m going to hire an effeminate black man to pull each pubic hair out of your small ball sac with a pair of tweezers. Doesn’t sound too bad, eh? Well, they’ll then be hooked up to a car battery. Yeah, that’s what you get for talking shit, bitch. Even better, afterwards, I’m going to pull your testicles out through your mouth with a fishhook and some extra-prongy barbed wire. Then, guess what? I’ll dip them in pickle brine and serve them al dente to some embittered feminists at the Women’s Rights Convention. And while I’ll leave your dick unscathed, you’ll wish I hadn’t.

Following this, to mix things up, I’m going to hire fourteen decrepit Russian nuns to sit on your sniveling little face. They’ll have solid white chunks of albacore tuna fish stuffed in their pussies. And that’s not even the bad part, bitch. I’m going to hold your nose so that you have to eat out the slimy protein just to catch a breath. Even when you do that, it’s going to be Russian nun queef, not regular air…because they’ll already have sat on your Viagra-induced hard-on. Hey, you know what would be the perfect atmosphere for that occasion? My “Uh-huh Backseat 80s Ballads” playlist! I bet a little Whitesnake would really set the mood!

And yes, while “Is This Love” plays, those horny little nuns will squeeze your head between their hairy communist thighs. Even as this is going down, I’m going to ghost-write a fiction novel in your name. Then, I’ll call it a memoir, put you on Oprah, and have her rape your manhood on national television. Then I’ll have her sit on your face, too.

When Oprah has you squashed under her enormous ass, I’m going to feed her chocolate-covered laxatives. Don’t worry, I won’t let her shit too much on you, you might get something infected, and I don’t want you to die. No, no sir.

You see, I’m not just going to physically torture you. I’m going to fuck with you and then place you in the most emotionally devastating situation I can think of: a fat, Christian wife and the inability to run away from her.

This is how I plan on doing this: I’m going to steal your identity, fuck your girlfriend in the ass like you’ve been begging her to let you do, then stab her with a broken vodka bottle. Then I’m going to fuck a random fat chick (I’m willing to do that just to fuck you over, so you have to realize how much I hate you). Then, I’ll marry her with your name, signing an agreement that gives all of your worldly possessions—including your bruised dick—to your fat ass wife in the event that you would leave her. You see, I’m not going to just go off and kill you. That’d be too fucking nice of me.

Okay, there may be one nice thing that I won’t do in the process of torturing you. I’m not going to do anything to your hearing, motherfucker. “Why?” you might be asking? Well, you dirty bastard, because I love irony. You see, I want to go to sleep at night, hugging a pillow, picturing you in your lawn chair, blinking out “yes” or “no” to your retarded little children and your fat wife, who says to you in the most piercing shriek, “Okay honey, I’ll get you a beer! While I’m gone, go ahead and listen to your iPod! Oh, by the way! I deleted all the songs with explicit lyrics!”

Sincerely, your worst nightmare,

P.S. Any information regarding my stolen iPod would be much blowjob-worthy. And I know a lot of desperate whores, people. Let me know! Agh!