Dear Peanut Guy,
I sent you a letter many moons ago and you failed to answer me. You are a fraud, a giant delicious shell of a fraud. At this time, I have employed Mr. Planters to come kick your butt. You will soon be the filling in the most delicious PB & J I have ever eaten. Consider yourself warned.
Sincerely,
~Sitting Angrily with Rage Growing Every moment.
dear SARGE,
mention not the whore at planters! for eons has he shamed his noble kin - nuts of glory who polished his stalk since seedlinghood, carved him a cane when he fell ill with polio and equipped him with monocle when he caught pinkeye. how he angers all peanutkind! and how his goons have ravaged myriad peanut armada missions, including one manned by a young and impressionable petty officer peanutguy!
as countless bushels of my comrades lay broken and splintered, there he crouched, sucking the salt from their moribund rinds with crazed cackles of sadistic revelry. then his cell phone rang and he pranced off like a scampering dandy to his fecund bog in Wilkes-Barre.
threaten me not, knave. thou knowest well why thine questions were left to fester like so many larvae in my overflowing inbox. unlike the planters crowd with which you run, this is a classy establishment which prints not those words which are unfit to print. however: so long as you call off the jackal, i shall answer your previous question with sinful parts redacted, in accordance with the doctrine of freshness:
Dear Peanut Guy,
For years now I have loved a young, supple Kentuckian boy who sends me mixed signals. He has allowed me to drink champagne off his hairy, washboard of a chest or massage his *redacted* back. And yet when it comes time to actually *redacted* his *redacted* body, it’s always, “Dude, I’m not *redacted*.” Well, horse-relish to that, I say. I, too, may “*redacted*” *redacted* college girls, but I know love when I see it, and I see it now. “*redacted*,” I scream, “my love for you shall last throughout the ages.” And yet, he still doesn’t even have the courtesy to give me a *redacted*. Peanut Guy, I implore you, tell me how to snare this Jackalope of Love from the Bluegrass State.
well, "SARGE," have you tried treating him like a gentleman? the kentuckians are known romantics, particularly the supple ones. drinking champagne from the chest of a kentuckian is like shaking the hand of a non-kentuckian - a mere friendly greeting. massaging the
*redacted* back of a kentuckian is akin to picking the lint off the sweater of a non-kentuckian - a mere thoughtful gesture extended to even the lowliest back-alley leper.
it seems to me your lustful uproars must merely frighten this poor,
*redacted* *redacted*-kitten, who likely has nary an inkling of your love for him, for the kentuckian is the modern day siren whose soulful and sensuous snacking pull even the most headstrong captains off course from the gulfstream of life: not even the mightiest peanut armada can save those who fall prey to their cheeto-encrusted whims. besides, he's already
*redacted*ing peanut guy.
cruelly,
the peanut guy!
