Dear Editor of the V.V.V.S.S.,
It has been brought to my attention that my worthless, no-good, lazy, indolent, indigent, and somnolent son, one Gerald Anthony Sninkwinkler III, has passed himself off as an author of some repute. Ill repute if you ask me. And you didn’t. So hear, then, are the real facts of the life of this erstwhile and shifty do-no-gooder, waste of space, EX-son of mine, who currently goes by the moniker “Dante Ruthless.”
It was 28 years ago that the listless loser was brought forth into this bright and beautiful world. I spent months perfecting the form, gestating him with such care and concern. I even stopped smoking for two months in the hopes that he might turn out better than Clyde, his father. And don’t ask about the Sninkwinkler IIi thing, because it’s a long story. Time travel, and the baby Jesus. You know.
So anyway, here I was, a single-ish mother, and this heathen child comes along and changes my life forever. And not in a good way, no siree-bob. This child did everything to give me grey hairs. Including spending valuable school time writing silly and pointless stories about zombies or some such. Then, when I asked him to get a job, he took up with a crew of, get this, musicians. They played music. Evil rock and roll. Including that hip gyrating stuff by that Elvis person. Oh lordy.
I had no idea what to do, so I locked him in a closet.
It didn’t help.
When he left, he told me he was changing his name to Dante Ruthless. Dante, I’m sure has something to do with the devil and that evil music, but the worst part was the “Ruth-less.” See, my name is Ruth Sninkwinkler. And by calling himself “Ruthless” he was disowning his very own mother.
My heart tore into tiny bloody shreds as he tore down the castle of my love for him.
He left me there, standing in the door of our doublewide, the Coors banquet slowly warming in my hand. When he hopped on his moped, he looked back, and then, with a diabolic smirk, he puttered off.
Never even said thank you.
Worthless little shit.
Anyway. Now you have the story, and I want all of the royalties from every story he ever wrote, ‘cause I ran out of Crown Royal last week, and I’m getting the shhakes again.
P.S. I hope the name V.V.V.S.S. doesn’t stand for Very, Very, Very Satanic Stories as I donn’t want filtthy lucre raiszed through the acctionsz of the horned one. Unless there’sz lotsa’ zeross on the checkk then I can just pay Revereverend Falwell to cleaane the money. It’ll bee okaee. Anywayz. sorruiy as I szaid… Iz getting a bitz shakkyyy. Neeeds tsome booze, Isz think. Or jEsus. BYe,