Dear Duke Thomas Wakefield,
I much appreciate the invitation to the racetrack for opening day. The grand spectacle of domesticated stallions galloping across the groomed track is most enjoyable. The glee brought from viewing the spectacular mammals outweighs the discomfort brought on by the sweating mass of working class would be rioters in attendance.
I will, however, decline your invitation for a number of reasons.
At our annual Heralding of the Thaw dinner party, I was disgraced when you compared my man-servant’s tea soaking method to the manner in which you lowered your scrotum into the mouths of Oxford students during your tenure as the “Dean of Debauchery.” I was near struck ill when you further regaled the guests with stories of your colored career in academic with tale of the time you picked the locks the doors of the scientific testing facilities, absconded with the sexual organs of multiple species of female primates and hurled the plump masses of flesh through the windows of the Cambridge dormitories shouting “That’s the closest approximation you will have to carnal relations with the fairer sex without permission from his majesty and a subpoena!”
Experiencing your degenerate behavior at the New Years Carnivale during our tour of the New World was bad enough, but hearing about your stuffing of the bird with a meat spear during the union of my dear daughter Margarite Katherine was humiliation at its utmost. I almost expelled the libations of the reception when you claimed that your filthy member was long enough to peer from the Louisianan turkey’s mouth when inserted through its rear cavity during your honorary speech.
I am also compelled to mention that your need to drag me away from amicable conversation at social gatherings and catapult me into the throws of orgasm with your massive throbbing phallus is a most offensive habit!
As I have made it clear on a number of occasions, thrusting through my pink gateway of innocence with that blasphemous flesh battering ram for hours on end and forcing me to scream “OH DUKE OF SOMERSET, CONQUERER OF PORTUGEUSE NORMANDY, RECOGNIZED PHILOSOPHER OF LEGAL THEORY AND ESTEEMED POET LAURETE OF THE WELSH, CORNISH AND MANX PROVINCES! OH TENURED MASTER OF THE NATURAL WORLD AND MISSIONARY TO THE ROGUE CELTS, BLACKFOOT AND TIBETANS PATRICK WAKEFIELD! HOW YOU TITALITE MY LOINS!” while I quiver against your naked body in the manner of an epileptic Spanish pitbull is disgraceful and most unlady like.
Our animalistic yelps have disturbed numerous houseguests, hosts and servants alike. That is not to mention the occurrences have prevented me from indulging in immeasurable appetizers and dinner servings during your frenzied displays of lust and moral abandonment.
It is for these reasons that I must thank you for the invitation to the racetrack’s opening day—oh, how the sight of the galloping mammals stirs the poet in my heart—but I must decline. I believe it’s my aunt’s birthday that weekend.
Sincerely,
Duchess Juliette Twimbly
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Tony Cella is a freelance journalist and aspiring author writing under a nom de guerre. His literary influences include Ben Shockley, Philo Beddoe and Harry Callahan.