Deer Gerry, it is late as I rite this Eeh-pistol too you.
My boyfriend Chuck Corona has long gone home. Leaving me tingling and vibrating from a vigerous, yet tender groaping and fissling.
My boy child, the fertile fruit of my lions, wee Bon Jovi is in his cardboard box. He has knew HEY! so should be quite warm.
Well Gerry, another Kristmas is almost upon us.
Kristmas is a hapy time. And yet, par-a-dox-icaly kan also be a wild, tarra sad time. I am thinking of the empty chair Gerry. The empty chair at the head of the table where deer Pappa used to sit. Before the dirty auld gulpin took up with a painted trallop and left wife and family in search of karnal pleasure in the form of idolitery.
Sins of the flesh Gerry. Sins of the flesh make countless thousands mourn. Saint Paul said that in his letter too the Ulster/Scots.
All married men should be chipped like the dogs they are. Then if they stray. Their wives could track them down and batter the face of them.
And any painted tramp who wood lure a married man from hearth and home should be tatooed on the forehead with a big S, which stands for Slapper.
Woe betide the painted trallop who wood cast a macared eye towards the forkal region of Chuck Corona. I wood be dug out of her. I may bee a mere week 18 stone woman. But I have honed my fighting skills by watching Mike Tyson. I wood bite the tramps ear off and spit it back in her face.
I wood pulverise her guts with body punches.
I wood brust her bust and knee her repeately in the under-carriage.
I am a temperate woman, but once riz I wreck havoc and lay waist to all around me.
They did knot name a hurricane after me. I was named after a hurricane. I am hell on wheels when I get going.
I suppose you have got all in Gerry for a good tightner on Kristmas day. I wood say you were never off the road with your wee bicycle. Ferrying spuds, sprouts, Birds trifle and Chivers jelly.
Now you kan put your feet up and relax-eh-voo.
KRACKERS! Gerry. Did you get the Kristmas krackers?. Kristmas wouldn't be Kristmas without a kracker. I look forward to a good bang at Halloween and Kristmas.
I suppose the wee boy, coming from a poorer part of Derry. Wool get stuck into the gruel on Kristmas. Hoping against hope that he finds the silver sixpence in his bowl.
The poor you have with you always Gerry. And if you don't believe me. Just look through the glass. What do you sea? That's rite. The poor.
If only he hadn't left skool so early and kept of the roofs of them auld flats.
How are the girls doing Gerry. I often think of the girls when I'm lying in bed. Languid and weary of Ireland's Own. I often think of throwing my leg on the auld bicycle and taking Janet and Emma for a girls nite out. We could meander down to the docks and look for little sailors. I'm sure the girls have bean there many's a time. But it wood be all knew two me.
How is the Undertone doing? Don't take know buck from that boy, just because John Peel has something rote on his tombstone. He's just like the rest of us. He puts his trousers on too legs at a time just like we do.
Do knot put up with uppitness. Don't let people with gold teeth cow you. Just look at him and say.
"There but for the grace of God".
I must away Gerry. A terrible urge to make use of the po has come over me. Have a hapy Kristmas. And when you feel the coma coming on. Start lowering yourself towards the floor. You don't want to split yourself at Kristmas. I gently lift the hem of my nite-dress now with slim, slender hand and glide lanquidly towards the resting plaice of the nite vessal.
Good nite sweet Prince. Good-nite.