Dear Mr. Punkwasser:
I have just completed reading Vol. 7 of your masterwork chrestomathy YO-YO MAN, and I must tell you I found it turgid, exploitative, ephemeral and unclean. The content of social conscience and jam was minimal; and the dog looks a lot like the recycling of, ahem, a vaporous canine from otherwhere. I have alerted not only the American Booksellers Association and the necessary postal authorities, but the strike-force action committee of the International Wombat Storm Window and Bidet Protectorate. We will soon drive you to ground, Plinkvetter, lay you by your heels, hoist your petard and otherwise conflate your dudgeon…no matter its height!
Y’never calls no more. Was it something I said? Was it EVERYTHING I said? Or are you done using me like an old bedroom slipper, and hath cast me away, seduced and abandoned?
Piteously, Yr. Pal, Harlan
Harlaneleh! Every time I called you first put on that pathetic Pakistani accent, then pretended not to know me, and followed up with a Niagara of contumely and billingsgate, references to interspecies coupling, and applied loathsome epithets to my mother. After 20 years of this, I began to suspect that you might not be happy to hear from me. I see they've let you have a computer. What this spells for the fate of the internet, I do not like to think.
