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Gentlemen:

I have just received your letter in regards to the bill I owe you. You said the bill should have been paid long ago and you don''t understand why it wasn''t. Well, I will enlighten you.

In 1957 I bought a sawmill on credit. In 1959 I bought an ox team, a timber cart and two ponies; a shotgun, a wine tester, a Colt revolver and five razorback hogs all on credit.

In 1960 the sawmill burned down. One of my ponies died and the other I loaned to a son-of-a-bitch who starved him to death. In 1961 my father died and my mother was hung for horse rustling. A mechanic named Joe knocked up my daughter and I had to pay the doctor $88.32 to keep the bastard from becoming a relative of mine.

In 1963 my son had the mumps and they went down on him; the doctor had to castrate him to save his life. That summer I went fishing and the boat turned over and I lost the biggest catfish you ever saw, and one of my sons drowned (not the castrated one).

In 1966 my wife ran away with another feller and left me with the three small children as a souvenir. I married the hired girl to keep down expenses, but I had trouble getting her off, and the doctor told me to try to create some excitement just as she was beginning to get aroused. That night I pointed the shotgun out the window while we were in bed and just as she was beginning to orgasm I pulled the trigger. Well, she shit the bed, I ruptured myself and killed the best damn milk cow I ever had.

The next year my troubles really started. My wife caught the clap from the ice man, my son wiped his ass with a corn cob with poison ivy on it, and someone de-nutted my best bull.

In 1970 I decided to go into another business on my own. I ordered six bee hives from Sears, Roebuck, and Company. I bought a swarm of bees and a queen bee all on credit on the installment plan. The queen bee died and I ordered another one. She turned out to be a whore and started running around with a horsefly. The honey tasted like shit so I couldn''t sell it.

So now, gentlemen, you say if I do not pay you, you will cause me trouble. Right now if it costs two cents to shit, I''d have to puke. Getting money out of me would be like trying to poke butter up a wildcat''s ass with a hot trowel, but you are welcome to try.

Yours for more credit,

Max

Humor of the day

December 26, 1999

Dear Santa,

You must be surprised that I''m writing to you today, the 26th of December. Well I would very much like to clear up certain things that have occurred since the beginning of the month, when, filled with illusion, I wrote you my letter.

I asked for a bicycle, an electric train set, a pair of roller blades, and a football uniform. I destroyed my brain studying the whole year. Not only was I the first in my class, but I had the best grades in the whole school.

I''m not going to lie to you, there was no one in my entire neighborhood that behaved better than me, with my parents, my brothers, my friends, and with my neighbors. I would go on errands, and even help the elderly cross the street. There was virtually nothing within reach that I would not do for humanity.

What balls do you have leaving me a fucking yo-yo, a stupid whistle, and a pair of socks? What the fuck were you thinking you fat son of a bitch?!

That you have taken me for a sucker the whole fucking year to come out with some shit like this under the tree. As if you hadn''t fucked me enough, you gave that little faggot across the street so many toys that he can''t even walk into his house.

Don''t let me see you trying to fit your big ass down my chimney next year. I''ll fuck you up. I''ll throw rocks at those stupid reindeer and scare them away so you''ll have to walk back to the fucking North Pole, just like what I have to do now since you didn''t get me that fucking bike.

FUCK YOU SANTA. Next year you''ll find out how bad I can be, you FAT-SON-OF-A-BITCH!

Sincerely,
Little Johnny