Dearest Sir, Madam, and most innocent child,
Come on and join me, old Gus, in a gay fine fahioned and enticingly magistical chin wag. Let me tell you how i didnae ride a dingo. I cannae lie coz the thingo was a lechin’ and I donae wanna get the tale asunder, so I’ll sniffle o nthe dizzy back to thae begin’ngs when the world was a whale on the back of tortoise-like and dingos were not known in the parts known as these then, and i nae don’t dare to tell you the secrets of mysterious lorries that burgled through the night coz I nae dun gone to ramble cross the brambles on over all the peet and mossy places we call home and country where gods and men and lasses and dank laddies dance the whistling jig ith flowers in their hair dut the donae know a thing from a nother thing and innae all in all the slippery sheep be gnawing on the twine that holds in the bilbies, am i right or ain’ I? Coz man, whoa the steeds with their hangin’ meat tubes that waggle in the winds of the Bleachy Cliffs be sedning me right into teating tizzy that cannae be understood but by a man who done got one for hisself. How’s that for a tale? I didnae lie that it’d set your blood to boiling.
Yours most sincerely,
Dear Mr. Banzoon,
Thank you for your correspondance but we here at Internation Fortifed Wines Inc. do not know what the fuck you are talking about.
Client Relations Dept.