Open Letter From Walter F. Test

To whom it may concern,

This is Walter Test, founder of test.com, my family's long-standing monogrammed towel website. We were one of the first sites on the internet, knowing that my father's cousins children, the rat bastard egg suckers, would try to take the name first. By a narrow margin we got the exclusive license, and we were able to set up shop at Test.com. After nearly twenty years of hard work, busting my ass clicking boxes and pressing delete, I have to come out and say it: Stop using my email address to sign up for your dumb shit!

Everytime I log on to my email, which is simply mylastname@mylastname.com, instead of compliments regarding our high-quality line of custom-monogrammed towels, I am plagued by thousands of emails confirming accounts to some site called redtube. Figuring it was my cousin Red's video site chronicling his alfalfa sprout farm, I rushed over, only to find a bunch of depraved humans spraying bodily fluid around like champagne after a NASCAR race. Moreover, not one of the videos on the site features a single towel worth anything. Mostly shabby hotel-grade cloths that look like sandpaper compared to our latest luxury line, ToWell.

My son came up with the name, bless his little heart. He's not the brightest bulb in the house, but he's my little buddy. I remember the first time I toweled his slimy body. It was our very first line, the Dry Guy. Made of 100% polyester, it made a man out of you.

Tomorrow when I log into my email, I don't want to be inundated with emails confirming subscriptions to tofu recipe sites, anti-duck pills, dick pills, Steve Buscemi fanclub emails, or the latest lotion by Jennifer Love Hewitt. Please, no more emails about dog manicures, amazon wishlists that consist of nothing but Jennifer Love Hewitt lotions and boxes of tissues, flashy pens, and offers for a free trip to a third world country I've never heard of. And if I see one more email inviting me to try out Jared Fogle's new website, I swear to the good lord Jesus I will find you and give you the hardest rat tail you ever got. I will come to your house with our cheapest towel and give you the Indian Rug Burn of a lifetime. I mean it, no more user accounts to fannyticklers.com. Seriously!

Like my home towel says, WTF?


Sincerely,
Walter F. Test
Founder, test.com

Go Ahead, Make My Day

The nourishment is palatable.

Running

Have I mentioned my love on run-on sentences recently? If I haven't, let me explain. They lend a sort of exasperating quality to the speech, a sort of desperation to just get a single thought out while the uncertainties of the world and the certainty of death and the collision of all sorts of neurons being fired simultaneously start to take over and if you could only get this one thought out then maybe everything would be okay, especially if you were to drop dead right here, without finishing your full thought but at least with this one last thought, please listen to what I have to say there's so little time and so many things get entangled and snared and the drumming starts in the head, a buzzing of anxiety and a ringing of the dinner bell of death, death's meal, your soul, which may never transmigrate at all but simply fester in some infinite creature's belly with pork and beans and start fermenting and oh the smells, and is that your high school science teacher in there with the bad breath and the coffee stained shirt and the glasses that were not the right size, but it was hard to tell if they were too large or too small or if you just wanted to change the size of their head during your brief stay in their classroom, and the stench of the fermenting souls and other rotting fruits inside the belly of this Endless creature's tummy, assuming death even eats your soul, this is not even confirmed even though the amount of time that is thought about death is more prevalent than any thought about science or truth and we still don't know what happens when we die but please let me get this thought out, just this one last thing, please, please, PLEASE!

Creativity

Creativity, is, as they say, hmm are there any sayings on creativity? Probably not. Scratch that.

Stop wasting time

Stop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting timeStop wasting t

Particles

If you are concerned about people washing their hands after they poop, then the midriff area of people's clothes are a complete no-fly zone, as there are currently no sinks that you can reach while still sitting on the toilet.

Swat

So there I am in an airplane bathroom furiously masturbating to the last great thing I had done, a bait and switch at the airport McDonald's where I ordered a small fries and took an entire family's order instead, the grease acting as a putrid, industrial lube, fresh with old stink, the garbage pail variety of foodstuff that best resembles an alien's guess at what human food should be; and I'm still here, masturbating with ardor, pumping my little Tony the Tiger, named after the stripe in the middle, that odd orangeish circle that I swear is from the time I jerked off with a Doritos bag back when I was fourteen and didn't know that Bugles were not only greasier but left a pleasant corn odor and didn't stain my cock orange permanently, causing a pet name Tony the Tiger to be given by my second wife, who had a vagina that looked like a snake's discarded skin; and I'm still masturbating fervently, starting to run out of adverbs, a classic overthink, thinking about myself thinking instead of trying to get off on my heroic McDonald's deed and a history of cock nicknames, there are others, but I need not list them here, lest I delay this any longer, lest we find ourselves careening into a dark hole of dirty dead-end prostitutes who promise a clean orgasm for $30, who swear they normally don't do this type of thing, they are in trade school, they are in town visiting their parents, they have hospital bills that need paying off; no need for them to be here, instead there's me, masturbating with fury, not overthinking it, masturbating to my own masturbation, climbing up my limbic system, waltzing into the medulla; I'm fucking my brain, I'm fucking my brain, and then, like a fly getting swatted against a wall, there is a heartbreaking noise followed by a tiny sense of shame and a stain on the wall that someone else will have to deal with.