Candylynnifer


STEVIE: Our next sketch this whenever, was, I’m happy to tell you, lost in a tragic leaf-blowing incident. The downside to this act of utter stupidity is, of course, that minutes of half-hearted, yet utterly worthless effort has been forever lost to wherever it is blank documents go when one shruggishly stomps a laptop down a storm drain in a fit of apathetic rage. But the downside is that… well, that I’ve bothered to replace it at all. How unfortunate for us both.

That said. We now present to you this letter I pulled out of someone’s mailbox on the way here.

STEVIE OPENS AN ENVELOPE, PULLS OUT A HANDWRITTEN LETTER.

(READS) “Dearest Candilynniffer… I am but the quaintiferouest gentlehuman this side of not-being-dead. It would pleasurbate me in a similar fashion to the direct stimulation of mine genitilic regions – up to and including climax, as well as the release of genetic material in a more or less messy, sloppy, and perhaps even disappointing fashion – on your part, but most certainly not mine – if you were to acknowledge my existence and bestow upon me a wholly earned appraisal of my value as a mostly harmless, wholly humble sexual beast that instinctively engorges your own dribbly bits and pieces in some preferable fashion.” Signed, “Masturabatoriably yours… Duncan.”

Well, Duncan… That certainly was a letter. But, I’m afraid that… Oh, wait. There’s another bit right here.

(READS) “P.S. I have included a self-portrait of my phallacial appendage, as well as a self-addressed stamped envelope for you to reciprocate in kind.”

STEVIE REACHES INTO THE ENVELOPE, PULLS OUT A PHOTOGRAPH.

Yup. That’s definitely a penis.

Night-night.

Sonathan


SONATHAN COMPOSES A LETTER, AS ONE DOES.

SONATHAN: Father… It’s been nearly fifteen years since you left. Last month, I investigated the refrigerator myself. There was milk to spare. I’m starting to suspect you didn’t go to the store. (BEAT) Repressfully yours… Sonathan.