Dear Sir or Madam,

My goslings, I have been a tad under the weather lately, and it can be somewhat difficult to keep a sheet of parchment in focus through two crusty, bloodshot eyes under a haze of pharmaceuticals. Truth be told, I’m not sure what sort of plague I’ve been stricken with. It feels as though a longshoreman has pushed his salty dockhand through my right nostril (my favourite of the two even) and down my sinus in order to play my tonsils like a tiny, rudimentary piano with his calloused fingers. Please do understand why there’s been no correspondence this past week or so. One cannot look down their nose at people when it’s caked with snot.

Likely this virus found purchase in its current luxury estate at the costume party I attended this past weekend. I think it was at Dabney Manor, although it very well could have been some other residence disguised as Dabney Manor, but they invited me so their taste in company was suitable enough for me to attend. I’ve since revised those criteria to exclude places riddled with sick. Not completely sterile, mind you. A little malady is fine. A lot of fascinating people are disease-carriers, beyond myself even. I think Coach makes a designer disease carrier…

Anyhow, as is custom at most masquerades, all of the women came basically naked save some small token to show which person or profession they were embarrassing with promiscuity. Dame Elizer arrived as a raunchy nurse with the traditional stethoscope — worn as a bikini — and I believe I saw another lady nurse that night. Very creative, she wrapped a thrush in spinach, shoved it up her twat, and was Florence Nightingale. Neither of these was my Typhoid Mary.

I spied a few acquaintances as well. Marcus Albatross had gained nearly three hundred pounds over the past month and came as a stupidly fat man. Mrs. Albatross arrived as a depressed, embittered spouse who sips gin in the corner and doesn’t talk to anybody. She won fourth prize I believe. Trevor James Jarnold, who had lost his arms and legs in the Iraq War / backyard wrestling, wore mannequin limbs on his stumps and came as a human being. He was propped up in the corner, unable to evade Patricia Hardly, scantly dressed as the abstract concept of Chastity, who complained that the polenta had been made out of candy corn.

Perhaps it was the refreshments that had stolen the colour from my cheeks. All I ate was one apple, however I did bob for it after a man who had cut up his face like Sam Neill from the end of Event Horizon. Also, perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken to those chaps who had scotch-taped slips of paper with “costume” written on them in pencil to their day clothes. People that uncreative probably would have difficulty wiping themselves properly. And maybe when I was offered a chair by a fellow who said his costume was “Dirt Ass,” I should have just called the police.

Thus here I lay this All Hallows Eve, surrounded by the tissue paper ghosts that had trick-or-treated at my face and were rewarded with copious amounts of boogers and phlegm. I will not be taking sugarmad guests tonight. The lights of my current residence shall be kept off and the exterior painted with a substance that becomes cyanide gas when combined with egg yolk. There’ll be no confections for The Gentleman either. I couldn’t taste it anyway and I’d rather not find out what Rainbow Nerds look like as vomit. Ah well, with a life as sweet as mine, does one even need candy? (Yes.)

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

P.S.

How terribly rude of me. I entirely forgot to mention what my costume was. I’m usually wearing a mask of whatever appropriate emotion no matter what event I am attending, thus a tangible disguisement scarcely affected me. I came as you, actually. Be flattered. Everyone said I looked just like you. I walked in your distinctive gait and parroted a number of your more ridiculous catchphrases to the delight of the other guests. I also committed some felonies in your name. Happy Hallowe’en.