Hey, Faggot: Recently, I hooked up with a woman with absolutely no inhibitions. The first time we had sex, my 75-pound basset hound, Bubba, was in the room. Before I knew it, she got a jar of peanut butter and had Bubba lick it off my penis!
The next night, she called me and requested Bubba's presence again. Reluctantly, I went to her pad with Bubba, and she seemed to enjoy Bubba more than me. I like this girl a lot, but she's more interested in Bubba's crimson red crayon than my own ballpoint pen. Should I break it off with the "Beauty and the Beast" or just throw the dog a bone?
Hey, J: Letters like yours, James, usually go right in the gross-out file, with the rest of the bullshit questions about gerbils and felching and eye-socket fucking and dogs and cats and the sanctity of human life and on and on. I get enough half-baked reworkings of dirty urban legends -- in this case, a touching variation on "The Woman Who Gets Caught Smearing Peanut Butter on Her Genitals for Her Dog to Lick Off" -- to fill my column with nothing else week after dreary week.
But something about your letter intrigued me. Specifically, the way your letter arrived on my desk. What about this fictional circumstance, this imaginary girlfriend and these nonevents (you don't even own a dog, do you?), so weighed on your mind that you felt the need to rush me this lonely piece of loose-leaf paper in a U.S. Postal Service Priority Mail envelope, overnight, at a cost to the return addressee, Kingsborough Community College in Brooklyn, of $3 American? The next time you boys in the mail room want to send me a mash note, send it regular first class and save good ol' Kingsborough $2.68, whydoncha?