My dearest Neal,
When you read this, I'll be long gone. I left you this morning while you were still enveloped in blissful slumber, cradled in the arms of the god Morpheus. I know I will regret it, lingering in the aftermath of our night of passion together for just a moment before getting into the back of a cab driven by an immigrant man who shouldn't even be in the country. You know what I mean. One of those towel-head guys. He hates America and he hates Americans and -- oh I'm sorry, we've been through all of this already.
We're different, you and I: I am a gorgeous blonde with a mean conservative streak and you are a soft leftie with thinning hair who enjoys his naked body more than any man should. You have an alcohol problem that could kill a small Latino family. I view addicts as the basest, most degenerate members of our society. In fact, I think the only thing that we have in common is that we've both publicly stated that we'd like to fellate the vice president. You, however, were the only one to actually do it.
We shouldn't be a match, you and I. We shouldn't even be able to cohabit the same room as one another, and yet, when I look at you, you filthy, disgusting man, the fires of my passion are stoked. They burn as strongly as my feelings about welfare that it is for the weak and lazy; that it encourages people to fornicate and eat fried chicken. When I close my eyes, Neal, it is your image that is burned onto the back of my eyelids. When I gaze longingly outside the window of my coach seat on my Continental flight to Miami that has only beverage service and a bag of peanuts, it's your swarthy, hairy body that I see before me.
Your writing is drivel. It is the sort of pedantic doodling that a chimpanzee with a pencil could have scribbled down given the proper amount of time. It's as though you sat down at a typewriter and just hit keys at random. The first time I read it, I vomited as if I had eaten something so repellent that my system rejected it upon swallowing. The second time, I'm not sure what happened. All I remember is the searing white fury. When I came to, there were three dead ferrets on the floor of my apartment. If bad books were shit, Never Mind the Pollacks would be a septic tank. I've decided to use the pages of the book to wrap my Christmas gifts. They might as well do some good. If you'd like to see what true writing is like, I'd suggest that you pick up Treason (published by Crown Forum and available in hardcover and paperback at any major retailer), though I suspect that you have read it already, my little furball.
I caught your appearance on the "Daily Show with Jon Stewart." I saw you converse with him, Jew to Jew, on a variety of topics. You looked like a snaggletoothed madman, spewing gibberish and frothing rabidly about the mouth. You seemed to gaze at him with a deep longing, and I've no doubt that he succumbed to your wiles after the show. I just hope that you were as tender with him as you were rough with me. You know that I like it rough. Also, in the ass.
I sit at your kitchen table right now, having swept aside the two empty bottles of tequila that you polished off last night and then stuck in your ass in an ugly attempt to seduce me. Your dance was bizarre. You swung your doughy, paunchy body around and played with your nipples. I must admit I was a little perplexed when you tucked your genitals between your legs and sang "China Girl." You are a loathsome man. You offend me. When I look at you, I am sickened. You make me want to rip your clothes off and make fierce, passionate love to you.
The apartment smells a little like a deep musk, like you. I felt that shiver run up my spine when I caught the odor in my nostrils.
Goodbye, my sweet prince,