Mumbling percolates downstairs. Staccato chops, chattering, clattering and cupboards slamming. A morning tantrum with pots and pans. The exaggerated sighs as the dishwasher door opens and closes. Disgruntled, resentful washing and scrubbing, self-righteous indignation over yogurt-ed cups with muesli glue. Grunt. And then admonishment, it blasts down the hallway. In the other room someone snickers and shuts the door. The front door crashes shut, then reopens, another garumpf, titter, grind, trip. Toe stubbed. Jacket flies with fulminating accompaniment of Canadian goose horn-blast squawk. Forgets keys. Returns with resignation. Coffee spills, stains, white shirt… brown art. Kid appears, kid disappears back to bed. School will have to wait. Door slams, angry diesel rumbles, backfires, and dies. Truck sits silent. Kid appears, grabs coffee, disappears. Door opens, shuffles down to basement. Door closes. Dog appears. Door opens, dog exits. House silent.
My father’s most humble, seething servant and thou shitted stool,
(Gaze upon inserted photograph of your Holiness hugging a tree)
I wish to bestow upon you a gift which will serve as a comfort to you in your most frigid and tumultuous times.
Let the anger that consumes the depths of your being fall to your feet as you gaze upon the image of your “boss”.
Feel gleeful and enriched, as you absorb the power and spirit his Holiness bestows upon the symbol of life itself, the great tree, that breaths in and out, enraptured and almost orgasmic in his embracing and loving arms.
Feel tenderness, as you witness the radiating peace and goodwill emanating from his smile. A smile he casts out to all his servants in these great lands. You can almost hear the music. “This land is your land, this land is my land, from Bonavista, to Vancouver Island…”
Yes, Dave, you see, you can’t quit, no matter how many Fuck-Yous fly a clear trajectory from your blessed hometown to your town of employment. They will always be deemed Fornication-under-the-consent-of-the-King, and sadly Dave-the-slave, you have forgotten that your”Boss” is indeed the King, and F.U.C.K. is his royal proclamation.
Insofar that your Grace may lack the required spelling skills that you deem necessary, especially for expressing one’s primal emotions with expletives, an asshole such as my humble father (your Grace) has many more assholes if he requires them to check his Holy words (if he sees this as time well spent).
Your time idled away on spell checks and petty gripes re: previous letters, is clearly lacking in economics of time management, as evidenced by the sweat and toil it must have taken you to write the most recent grammatical nightmare.
However, I am blessed with a most forgiving and tender heart and I hold out my toe for you to bestow an act of gratitude and expect that you will be honoured with the vision of its loveliness despite its fungal outgrowth.
Bless you humble servant, I extend my hand to you (albeit double gloved, 800 thread count).
May the sun shine down low upon you and the rain wash you clean.
Signed on the sixteenth day, of the fifth month in the year of our Lord, two thousand and nine,
Sincerely, although slightly exhausted from this tedious task of writing to you,
My father’s most honourable daughter,
Cuntessa P. Lickensdhole III (nee Biggerbottom)