Candilynniffer

STEVE: 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 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.

STEVE 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.”

STEVE REACHES INTO THE ENVELOPE, PULLS OUT A PHOTOGRAPH.

Yup. That’s definitely a penis.

Night-night.

Why Don’t We, Together

STEVE: Hello, and welcome back to, “A Neighbor is Stalking Me, and Doing a Very Poor Job of Hiding It.” I’m a Fixation of a Sick and Perverse Individual in Need of Serious Help.

Sometimes – quite frequently, actually – people like to leave strange notes under my door, tucked into my car visor, or by knocking on my wall in a rather poor attempt at morse code.

Coincidentally, I also can’t be bothered to write original material from time to time. Such as now. So, I thought this a perfect opportunity to share one of my favorite bits of what I desperately pretend is fanmail, yet very much isn’t at all.

STEVE HOLDS UP A SHEET OF PAPER.

(READS) “Dear Doug… My husband of fifteen years refuses to touch me in any way other than confusion, our son won’t stop making vague threats to cats online, and I’ve recently found myself fantasizing about the elderly Filipino man who operates the coin laundry. I have everything I could ever want. Why do poor people make me sad?” Signed, “Irritated in Irvine.”

Thank you for your uncomfortable and wholly uninvited bit of correspondence, Irritated. And to be perfectly honest, I do suspect your problem lies in a distinct lack of empathy and a condition I like to call, “Being a crazy word some people will take great offense to if I said out loud while simultaneously ignoring the precise context in which such a word is being used.” That said, please do tell me more about this elderly Filipino man.