A Gold Medal Letter to Michael Phelps

Dear Micheal Phelps,

no ignore that.

Hey Shithead,

    Thanks for ruining the Olympics…or should I say the Michael Phelps shows. You think just because your so tall and happy you can take over the world? You can’t. Not while I’m around (And judging by the blistering open sores all over my body and the drastic decay of my face and mouth it won’t be long). We watch the Olympics to be olymped. Not to be brainwashed by you and your infomercial’s with Morgan Freeman. To use a quote from Aristotle, “Don’t piss in my face and tell me it’s raining, because it’s not raining, that is just your piss…your warm piss…in my face”.

     Do you know how often the Olympics come around? Probably not because you’re to busy swimming with dolphins and fucking hot Mermaids. Once every four hundred years. That means the average American only sees 3 of them (2 after the one you ruined). You are not a star just cause your fans call themselves phans. All they did was change the “F” to a “Ph”…not a big deal. You are not a super hero (If you were you would be like Handcock’s sidekick, Footdick). You are just like all of us. Sad. Alone. Praying that one day the 19 year old gurse (Gay Nurse) that cleans your open sores with a cheese grader might give you a really mean blowjob….not today, not for another four years.

    My gurse (Gay Nurse) just so happens to be French. And after a bottle of Frances cheapest Red Wine on a long night in July (I pretended to drink the wine but spit it out…it leaks through the hole in my neck, and causes a cheesy green fungi bacteria to grown in like a neck bread, made of cheesy green fungi bacteria). I told my gurse (Gay Nurse) Kevin or as he calls himself Harriott, that I hoped the French team would win. In a awful French accent he said if the French won the Gold he would be so happy, he could suck a 100 dicks…maybe even 400 hundred dicks. But I only needed one dick to be sucked…one lonely, cheesy, blistering, sore infested, uncircumcised dick.

    One night after several more bottles of wine, we sat close to the tv watching…waiting. The house smelled off everything french. French toast, French bread, French fries (They were actually freedom fries, but after all the Xanax I put in the wine he couldn’t tell the difference). The frog legs were spectacular. The snails simmered in a cream sauce. The cheeses could be smelt from across the house…though once he scrapped me down with the grader, the rotting smell went away.

    Then it was time. In my wheelchair I danced with delight and spun around in circles. The teams lined up in their skin tight suits. Harriott giggled as the French boys stretched. The countdown for the meanest blowjob ever began. Everyone took their marks. Most of what happened next is a blur. I remember the Americas leading and Harriott pouting. I remember the French leading and Harriott unzipping his dress. Then I saw YOU. I saw you yelling and cheering like the white gorilla you are….then I saw the Americans win.

    You might wonder why I am going to kill you quietly as you sleep in your home next Thursday and not the American man who won the race. Because you are the only one who’s name I know.

    After the French loss, Harriott couldn’t look, let alone speak to me.  Enraged, he put his dress back on. Stumbling through the kitchen, he smashed the plate the French toast once laid on. Storming by the stove he spit in the simmering cream sauce the snails sauteed in. And then he left. (He didn’t make it far though. He crashed into a tree one block away…the cops said he was overdosing on Xanax. I didn’t know he had a drug problem). Now he’s dead and the cheese on my body has won the war with my skin. The blisters no longer go down when I dowse them with battery acid. My nipple yogurt keeps leaking even after patching the holes with pancake batter. My genital cheeses have turned gold, due to lack of the sand paper baths Harroitt can no longer give me (I would pee every time). The bacteria on my neck has now infected both of my eyes and little mites eat at my corneia everyday. I can feel them biting holes in my eyes. I will be dead by Friday, but Thursday I will kill you. And know after I kill you I will lay my gold cheese penis in your mouth and whisper in your ear…”How do you like the taste of gold now bitch”?

Your Biggest Phan.

A Note: If I don’t die Friday…that gives me another day with your corpse….how do you like yogurt?