Dear
My spit is of the palpable variety. Not too full, but not too thin, it is just the right density for a viscous guy like me. Right in the middle, where it can neither harm nor impress the ones I love. It’s there, and it exists. My spit is like my arms. Not too long, not too short. Enough muscle to look healthy, and a vein or two just to look like I go to the gym, but not overly huge and certainly not underdeveloped. My arms are very average, and they fit quite nicely on the same body where the spit comes from. They exist, much like my soul. Not too dark, but most certainly not light. Neither full nor empty. This is because I am a Wall Street banker. No, I am not a basketball player, on account of my arms. I am not a baseball player on account of the lack of chud in my spit. But I sell. And I buy. That’s my motto. Well actually, my motto is: “They won’t remember who you are, but they will remember you seized their house.” I don’t even know if that’s how banks work, but I tell you the fuck what: that’s how I work. I’m a true patriot, one who has avoided entanglement in the political messes fed to us by bureaucrats. I play my way, like Tom Brady, or Jimi
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Hendrix, if either of those two guys sold stock and hocked doozey loog’s like it was their job. (It’s my job.) Oh, you thought we were done with the spit huh? Well ma’am, you can’t even fathom how often I think about it. My thoughts are deep, but my pockets, oh boy, they are not that deep. They are pockets, not reusable grocery bags. I only expect 5-6 inches’ max depth in my pockets. And by pockets, I do mean my soul. What more can I say? I’m a simple man who enjoys simple pleasures. I like pizza, kissing my wife on the mouth in front of guests, and a good road-kill. A nice trophy turtle. Viscous stains on the Jeep. Hollow out the shell, make a nice spit bowl out of it for me and the kids to practice hocking in. I am such a great father, and my kids have told me that before. They know Daddy went to the School of Hard Knocks. And DeVry. What was my major? Crushing Gash, of course, you big ass. I’ve done the fucking. I know you know that I’ve done the fucking since I have three kids: Jack, Jake, and Kelpis (adopted). That’s at least definitely two fucks, and a third just for celebration. (Adopting is extremely hard to do.) My kids don’t just love
me and my stocks and my arms which hold them for moments. They love art as well. I’ve seen them listen to Bono before, and they seem to appreciate a nice piece from Ross Bob Ross, and the comfortably cheap clothing store. They will only wear clothes from the latter, unless I also shop somewhere else, in which case they will wear what is available. You can tell they’re my boys because most of their clothing articles have spit marks on them. It’s their spit, but in a way it’s also mine. What can I say? A good man marks his territory. I buy them too many clothes, though. Kelpis has a stomach issue and can’t stop hurting his corduroys. I want to sell back Kelpis. Anyway, if you’re interested in catching a movie or something, you must be at least an 8 to ride this bull. Give me a holler. And don’t tell my wife about the whole spit thing. Please.
Jerry