Open Letter to Last Night’s Caller

Dear one,

I hope you will forgive me if I interrupt our correspondence to write an open letter:

Dear Madam,

This is in reference to your 12:37 a.m. call yesterday evening. While I don’t deny being a skank ho bitch (or, for that matter, a bitch skank ho), I must plead not guilty to the charge of stealing your “man, bitch” (or perhaps man-bitch?), having neither stolen, borrowed, nor even misplaced a man for quite some time.

How my telephone number ended up stored in your consort’s cellular telephone device is an unsolved mystery, the reenactment of which would no doubt be much enlivened by the narrative gifts of Robert Stack, the Alex Trebek of FBI case files. With all due respect, I would recommend that you watch the April 2, 2005 episode of Dr. Phil in which he talks about Trust in Relationships. The gist is that one should not rifle one’s beloved’s electronic devices for evidence of infidelity. However, if one does find said evidence, protocol demands that one make absolutely sure of the number before dialing it from a private untraceable line.

Regarding your offers to cut me or alternatively whoop my ass, I choose the latter. But I wonder if, before beginning, I might persuade you to join me for a cup of ginger tea and a viewing of an episode of “Murder, She Wrote.” It fortifies the ass-whooping glands and stars Angela Lansbury.

Respectfully yours,


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