My Dearest Bros Orville and Wilbur,
Without post-ponement, allow me to convey to you my heartiest congratulations on the invention of flying. Such an achievement is indisputably Straight. Up. Bad. Ass. To wit, your inspired revision of the lift equation’s Smeaton Coefficient. Clutch!
But in my enthusiasm I am dis-courteous; it is right I should introduce myself. I am Silas Jeptha Ulysses Gable III, but most of those with whom I am acquainted refer to me simply as CrayTrey. Gentlebros, I put pen to paper this hour with purpose: to kindly request that you, dear fucking studs, will attend, with your dope-ass flying machine, an upcoming massive fete I am to host and which I have tentatively titled: “Aviators; & Sluts!!!”
There is per-tinent information that will no doubt be of inter-est to you. Primary is that the place will be mad crawling with chicks. Or, rather, many of the chicks will be mad and crawling, their legs having been severed by a machine at the local textile mill. None-the-less! The mill is sited mere minutes from my tenement and when the women in its employ end their 19-hour shifts they are ready to party, legs or no. Moreover my fast friend Rhino—right and true boozehound, he!—has the hookup at the turpentine dispensary; the drank situation, thereby and so forth and such-thus-have-you, is covered.
I mention these facts for I have it on good account that you yourselves, kind bros, are some serious ragers. Reports abound! Frequenting saloons, abusing the lame betamales therein, regaling harlots with stories of flight just to get mad laid? Sick!
I must confess it: I, too, am weak for the saloon’s siren song. And yet; the nearby gymnasium is the locale, I do believe it!, the more conducive for scoring babes. Just two Thursdays past I was in the gymnasium hoisting aloft a weighty iron box (do you bros hoist?) when I spotted a woman, a solid 8, gazing at me intently from across the premises. Her yoga pantaloons I found divinely touched & basically fucking sexy as fuck; & I approached her.
“Greetings. Silas Vanderbilt at your service,” I offered. And the Vanderbilt ruse worked! My good sirs, we smashed eleven times that very day! “Telegraph me!” she implored as I took my leave. Yeah—not happening.
A fine occasion, and one most unlike that which befell me this week-end when my wankcheese bedmate returned home with two boardinghouse hags most foul. Their rounded foreheads and indistinct nose lobes portended ill, but I—foolishness!—paid no heed and, as is my custom, aided the wankcheese; for the team, I took one, engaging half of the hag-pair for the night’s duration. Alas, a mistake. Total psycho clinger, and I am quite certain that on her account I have also contracted whooping cough. FML.
I digress! Dear bros, I beseech you: alight in your flying apparatus upon this looming epic wenchapalooza! Camisoles, bare-knuckle boxing, flammable fluids most delicious, immoral rookery groupies, &c!
LET US DO THIS!
Yours most truly and shit,