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G. Rodney Fussensnitch's Review of His Own Prison Release Letter I am a broken man. Surely my captivity is over, but prison has left me defiled, bruised, lobotomized and defeated. A man can only protect his anus for so long. It got to the point where I would stop cleaning myself, where I would take a poo poo in my pants and leave it there, just so I would seem unattractive to the other inmates. But soon after I hatched that plan, the guards, in their wiley ways, turned the prison into a nudist prison, and not only that, but they forced carrots into our buttholes, super-glued them there, and let thirty hungry donkeys loose in the prison environment. Needless to say, by the time my sentencing was up, I was a man who lived on the edge of reality, who slept with donkeys, who danced naked dances of death in the shower with a burley man as my partner and a homemade blade the only thing separating us, who ate everything in his cell including the bed and the cot, who peed when he wanted to and poo’d when someone else wanted him to. And then I was released. Several things were given me to me at that moment: my blood-stained shorts of course, my black trash bag, and my whip. And one other thing: a standardized typed-up note from the warden, which I assume every prisoner gets upon release. Anyway, reviewing literarical sources was the only thing that kept me alive in prison, and I found myself hunting for a fresh wound on my body to use to get at my blood supply, blood being the only writing material I had on hand. I was still a reviewer, dadgummit. I may have turned into a perverted Peter-poking-puppy-killing-pansy in prison, but on the outside, I was still a reviewer. Besides, I needed the money.
And so here I am, my finger dabbling in the blood that oozes from my scrotum and the prison pamphlet in my other hand. Before I begin to ascertain the meaning of the words in front of me, let me put them in front of you...
Dear Child of the World: Thank you for attending Buckleloo State Prison. We will all miss you now that you are gone. Let me say a formal goodbye from all the inmates who didn't get the chance. Goodbye. Your time here was blessed, as you know. Now that you are on the outside, play it cool. Do the things you have always dreamed. And always remember: You have dear friends at Buckleloo State Prison. Thank you. - Warden Turdy Buckkle
This is simple enough. It is prose at the lowest level, prose desiring of a good spank. The author is obviously intending to get his reader alone in someplace the reader doesn't feel comfortable. If you pick through the wordage, you find key points where the reader is forced to take his clothes off and fondle himself. The author, through a 16th century literary tone, may or may not have a camera and a cattle prod and may or may not be getting naked himself. It depends greatly on his mood as he has done this so many times before. The reader of this piece can identify with the protagonist quite imperceptibly. He is a man in a dark corner, huddled against himself, his clothes stripped from him, while the author does one of three things: pokes him, prods him, or pistol whips him... I'm sorry. I had to stop writing. I must have started to run back to my beach at an alarming rate, but I fainted due to lack of blood in my body. My shorts are stained more now than ever before, and my hand is crusty with dried up blood and body tissue. I must get home to my beach. I've lost the pamphlet and perhaps the memories too. Oh no, I haven't lost them at all! I must continue to run. Let the blood spurt from my body as much as it would like, I shall not give it a second thought. Run, I must. Run from all that I am, being this free man with a busted sack, a smile on his face that won't go away, and a trash bag kept on his shoulder with his trusty whip - a broken man. That’s the review and now I’m done and free to be dead for a little while.
This article written
by
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