Dear Francis, You Rude Wanker,
Would you stop antagonizing me every moment of the day? I don't know who I dislike more—you or the cat! And he IS a cat, thank you very much, prestigious git…a very, er, honorable cat, too. He's got more courage than you have hair! AND DON'T REPLY WITH SOME IRRELEVANT COMMENT ABOUT MY EYEBROWS, YOU TWAT!
Ahem—YES, I WILL be attending. There will be no need to take my stakes AND STOP WITH THE COOKING JOKES, DAMN YOU. Why does everyone keep saying I can't cook? I can cook! I mean, if I really wanted to! All these years, I've known I was giving you awful food. I wanted you all to—to—uh—get horribly ill and die! Ha—you didn't think I could be that awful, did you? Well, serves to show what you know about me: NOTHING WHATSOEVER.
By the way, your letter was terribly short, Francis. Could it be you spent several hours revising to find the perfect words to write? You stupid romantics. And how many times does it take to WRITE A LETTER? If time is such a "fickle" thing, then why the hell do you spend most your days reciting poetry or writing love letters to the butterfly on your window sill? And don't deny it—I found your letter to the ant under your kitchen carpet!
How EMBARRASSING, am I right, HON HON HON?
And I don't give a damn if Romano is asking for help! That wanker tried to slice my eyebrows off with the same cleaver he uses to chop onions in his damn kitchen! At least China tried waxing them—a cleaver! He could have gouged my eye out! Not to mention his neighbor is the rudest, most infantile creature I have ever met on the face of this Earth. If he wants to capture his grandfather, I DON'T CARE.
I hope he doesn't read this…
Cheerio, you moron;
England, because I'm better than you
PS: DON'T even start, Francis. Don't even start.