I protest wholeheartedly against your continued use of delightfully, delirious names and words in seemingly endless retreads and ripoffs that appear every Christmas. Please cease and desist immediately.
A vulnerable youth, I feel under your spell while innocently sitting in front of the boob tube tuned to the local PBS station here in the colony. From the very first shot of a naked Mr. Jones at the piano, I was hooked. For years, you filled my dreary world with fantastic, absurd, and hilarious words. Outside my mind was dullness and the turmoil of an adoptee stuck in an eroding and exploding domestic skit. Between you and W.C. Fields, my head was filled with a cacophony of words, phrases and accents that plunged me into the study of History at university.
To the dismay of many a professor, I continued to mispronounce the names and events of so many of their personal favorites, continued to pronounce the names of key Italian Renaissance figures with a pseudo-Cockney lilt. And, don’t let me get started on my celebrated feuds with the German history professor who insisted it was Mr. Hitler, not Mr. Hilter. Or, the Russian prof who resorted to locking me in a small, barren Moscow flat with only a wooden chair after I’d used the philosopher’s quiz skit to demonstrate how we could achieve peace in our lifetime by having world leader’s play a game of Trivial Pursuit.
Needless to say, I agreed to leave university with the unanimous blessing of my professors and a History degree with my name written in crayon, and am now scratching out a living writing screenplays at a desk in a small, barren flat seated on my beloved wooden chair.
Brigadier General Fancy-pants, Esq.
P.S. A nasty missive is also on it’s way to Mr. Fields for causing me no end of confusion when it came to dogs, children and booze.