I am not a man. I am a straight woman so I will never be able to tell my future wife anything because I won't have one. It's okay though. I brought on a special guest: Sam Poulter to spill his guts in a romantic manner. Get a load of this ladies. It's hot.
Dear Linda,
Firstly, regardless of the title you carried before I dropped into your life like a burlap sack filled with hummus on a hot summers day (makes for a much easier spread), you will be known as Linda henceforth. You will call yourself Linda, your friends will call you Linda. Your tombstone would read Linda, only it won’t because upon your death you will be cremated so I may mix your ashes with E-Juice I make in the tub. Tub juice.
Why Linda, you might feel like asking? Well, you don’t get to ask. During our union you will take a vow of the utmost silence, only to be broken in the instance that you are asked (by me) what my name is during copulation. To which you will respond with “Lord Master Xygxygwyn! The royal sheathe of mine holy spoon!” You won’t be able to ask about the part concerning the spoon, obviously, but in the interest of saving time I’m willing to articulate to you the fact that I am only able to achieve orgasm in the event that a willing perpetrator inserts the spoon end of a wooden spoon into my rear cavity and begins churning with said spoon to the tock of a metronome tuned at 65 BPM’s. Please ignore the inscription running down the spoon vertically, I understand you may feel it is appropriate to verbalize your concerns regarding your new name and the name inscribed upon the spoon because they are the same; all you need to know is that my grandmother did her best and I have yet to find a better recipe for gumbo than the one she passed on to me. You must learn your place!
Finally, please understand that just because a union such as ours may look, feel and be completely different from what you’ve observed in other romantic relationships; that doesn’t mean you won’t or can’t learn to appreciate what I’m trying to do, here. You will birth many children bearing my surname, all of them boys. If we space it out correctly and you remain fit as a noble woman does, one hundred and fifty three months after the birth of my first son you will gather our seventeen children in the attic of my grandmother’s house. The south wall will be wracked with jars of deceased Atlas moths whose bodies and wings have become both turgid and crisp, after the children have assumed their learn-ed formation you will begin to hand out the moths one by one until all of them have been ingested by the fruit of my seed. During this time, I will be dousing the foundation of my grandmother’s home with gasoline and bug repellent. The ritual will conclude with my ignition of the aforementioned petrol and repellants, at which point the smoke will carry your soul and the souls of our children to the Nether-Realm for judgment. I will then be summoned to middle-earth to assume my rightfully earned position at the table of the council of the Draconian Illuminati. I will be in good company there, as a scriptwriter for the next Woody Allen film.
Thoughtfully signed,
Your Future Captor
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