Open Letter to Mrs. Munson:
Hi hon, it’s me, your heterosexual husband, Martin. Sorry to break the news to you via the blog, but you are fucking high if you think I’m going to King Richard’s Faire this weekend, or any other weekend, for as long as we both shall live. Don’t try to trick me into going by tempting me with smoked turkey legs and yards of beer, either. If I wanted to spend my afternoon drinking watery ale and eating awful food while leering at sloppy tits, I’d rather just go to Hooters. Oh, “maybe we can take a drive down Sunday”? Yeah, I would love to drive 90 minutes and pay $27 each to watch some carney have his trained hawk retrieve a stuffed animal right around the time the Patriots are kicking off. I know the other Faire-goers like to get into character and interact with complete strangers, but my canned responses to such queries as “Hark, who goes there?” and “Where art thee from?” are “Your mother” and “Go blow theeself”, respectively. Maybe it’s a coincidence, I don’t know, but just on a hunch I did a search and would you believe there are currently 14 registered sex offenders living just down the road from the Faire in Carver? Think they might come out in droves to rub their hogs up against people in the crowd? The only way you could get me to this shitshow is if you guaranteed we would get to witness an actual beheading.
I think my friend Matt Selman said it best: “Why are all of the people at the Obesity Fair wearing Renaissance clothes?”
Thanks, but no thanks Sweet Tits.