Dear Ideal Patient of the Lap Band Surgery,
I guess it is time to do this song and dance again fat man. I am still not sure how a mythical creature is going to grant all my wishes for Christmas, especially one that is the poster child for obesity. I wonder, do you happen to carry Crisco in your bag of Santa tricks. I have a feeling that it is the only way that you are able to make it down some chimneys.
Well, I guess you know what I have been this year, so I know I am going to have to be a normal person and buy stuff for myself. At least I know I would actually get what I want. I am still waiting on that slinky, Fat Fuck Chuck. It is just sad that you have not been able to produce a fucking spring. Chance are that you have broken a few just sitting down on the bed.
Since I actually have to say what I want this year, and for the first year I am not going to be a complete cunt pickle. And chances are if I were, you would just eat it anyway. Instead of asking for Richard’s death, I feel that I am going to throw him a bone this year and just over moderately torture him until he cries and decides to put on a diaper. Here is what I want, I want a device that is shaped like dinner table, as he is just like you and can’t resist the food. In the middle of this contraption is Popeye’s chicken because, if I know anything, he can’t resist fried chicken. I am assuming that if his girlfriend ever breaks up with him, he will move into a KFC, and put Colonel Sanders in the nursing home. Once he sees the table, he will sit and the contraption will close him in. Once inside the contraption, an arm will grab chicken and offer him a bite. Right before, he is able to take a bite, the arm pulls it away from him. Than the arm will grab a glass of ice cold Pepsi and as he thinks the arm will actually give him a glass, it pours all over his favorite Kansas City Royals World Series Shirt. And we continue to do this until ,well, I find it boring. Which will be the 11th of fucking never.
Greatest Christmas Ever!!!! Oh and bring that blasted slinky. Because if you don’t, I will find a way to get Mrs. Claus in my bed room and I will be putting it in her yule log if you know what I mean.
Figure it Out,
PS. I realized I am guessing you do not know what I mean by the last statement, I would be doing butt stuff with your wife.