June 09, 2005

Dear Kitchen Floor,

As an unwelcome squatting tenant in our household for the past year and a half I am sure I need not bring to your attention the level of unbridled hatred that you presence incurs on myself and my family. You are responsible for causing severe phychological trauma to myself on account of you abhorrant and wilfully disturbing appearance. Your attempt to masquerade as a quarry tile floor in the past 18 months have been, frankly, pitiful. Although I must admit that covering yourself in water-based red emulsion paint is a master stroke if it is your aim (as I suspect) to drive me to to the ragged brink of my sanity. As you know, all efforts to unmask you for the vinyl villain you are have met with nought but a red mop. I fear now though, your ongoing plan to destroy my already pitifully barren wardrobe one pair of socks at a time must be stopped.

It is, then, with some jubilation that I write to inform you of a recent instance of divine misrepresentation on behalf of my wife which may or may not have involved a ritual sacrifice of an innocent (accounts vary). The result of this improbable jucture is that I have a small amount of money with which I intend to inflict a large amount of pain on your good self. I suggest you and your repulsive assemblage of rotting paint-covered cat biscuits, loose change and sentient fluffballs make your peace with whichever planar demon saw fit to summon you.

I'm finally going to take a chisel to you.


*crying with laughter*
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