To: Preston Warmwood, Obituary Editor of the Los Angeles Times
Re: The Death Notice of Ulysses G. Hocares
Dear Mr. Warmwood,
It has recently been brought to my attention that the Times ran a death notice for a Mr. Ulysses G. Hocares in the March 16th morning newspaper. If I only get two messages across to you before you crumple this letter up into a ball and shove it up your ass, let it be these:
1. Tell your fact-checker to get her mouth off of your cock and to do her goddamn job for a change.
2. I’m not dead you horse fucker!
Now let’s get a few more things straight, so when I do kick the bucket one day, people will know who I really was.
Mr.Hocares was NOT born to loving parents, Martin and Deborah Hocares. That bitch didn’t love nothing in this world but a good time and the odds of Martin being my actual father depends on how many men that whore let cum inside her that month, which was probably quite a few. Poor gullible Martin only got named “Dad” on my birth certificate because he had enough cash in the bank to afford child support and, as it turns out, he was actually dumb enough to pay it. At least for a few years. He ended up drinking himself to death by the time I was12 and I finally discovered the joy of jerking off. Cheers old man!
Next Mr. Warmwood, and pay close attention to this one you limp dick prick, Mr. Hocares is NOT survived by his estranged wife, Gloria Y.Hocares, and their devoted son, Les C. Hocares. Don’t tell the bitch this, but we were never actually married. Ha! The wedding ceremony was a total sham. The so-called priest was just some bum I met in a bar and paid fifty bucks to dress up in godly garments and pretend to pronounce us fucker and fucked.
Why a fake wedding? Mr. Warmwood, I’m so glad you asked. It’s simple. Women are whores and, if you aren’t legally married to them, they can’t take half of your shit when they decide to move on to the next golden cock they’re going to suck and fuck the life and money out of. I haven’t seen that dried out old cunt in years and why the hell she kept my last name is anyone’s guess. Probably likes the high level of class and respect associated with it.
Now Les C. Hocares is probably my son. He looks more like me than the mailman, the gardener, the pizza delivery boy, my accountant or any of the garbage men who regularly picked up trash off our curb, including that slut whore fake wife of mine. But “devoted?” Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick! The only thing that son of a bitch is devoted to is heroin. I’d get a blood test to be sure he’s mine, but it would likely just come back saying that he’s half HIV positive and half asshole, on his mother’s side. The only time I speak to him is when he calls asking for money. I cut that junkie off years ago and guess what? I haven’t heard from him since. Devout son my hairy warted ass!
“Mr.Hocares was a dedicated long time public servant for the City of Los Angeles, who devoted nearly forty years of his life to the betterment of society.” “Dedicated?” “Betterment of society?” And there’s that fucking word again you love to throw around so much,“devoted.” I was just a goddamn dog catcher who simply scraped roadkill off the streets and removed unwanted, unloved, stray, abandoned, miserable, usually innocent, too frequently vicious, starved, sickly dogs, cats and other thrown out pets from people’s vision of the American Dream so they could sleep at night. I was nothing more than a small cog in a very fucked up big machine. I couldn’t give two balls and steaming pile of shit about the people of Los Angeles, their lives and especially the betterment of them. I only did that lifeless job because it paid the goddamn bills and no one else wanted to do it. I was no more wanted or appreciated than all those pathetic animals I put on death row at the pound each and every day. And at least they got put out of their fucking misery after two weeks. I’ve had to keep on going for nearly 60 goddamned years and counting!
Mr.Warmwood? Are you still there you asshole? You’d better be. And make sure that fact-checker reads this after she’s swallowed your load so she might actually learn something useful for once. I, Mr. Ulysses G. Hocares, am not now, nor have I ever been, and surely never ever fucking will be, sorely missed by ANYONE, ANYWHERE, ANYHOW… EVER! When I finally do take the eternal dirt nap, I guarantee you that my estranged gold digging whore wife, my smack shooting sad sack son and all those phony cock sucking Angelenos will scream out loud with pure unadulterated joy at my ultimate demise. And good for them. It will be the first goddamn honest and genuine expression of emotion any of them will have ever exhibited in the entirety of their bullshit lives.
My dear Preston. May I call you Preston? After baring so much of my heart and soul to you, I feel like we should be on a first name basis now. You can call me Ulysses if it makes your dick grow hard, turn purple and start to bob, thrust and throb like an freshly hung autoerotic asphyxiated accident. Preston, please make sure you clear the air in tomorrow’s paper. And not simply half hidden at the back in the goddamn “Corrections & Clarifications” section that no one ever fucking reads. But in that same glorious and well respected “Obituaries” section, where you first so marvelously fucked this all up in the first place, so that EVERYONE, EVERYWHERE and ANYONE, ANYWHERE… EVER knows that Ulysses G. Hocares lives!
You deliver that almighty message to all the Los Angeles Times readers like the pathetic little mindless monkey paperboy you are and I will leave you alone to screw that fat fucking fact-checking intern until the cud chewing cow cums without further ado.
Best Regards! Yours Truly! Go Fuck Yourself! Get Syphilis and Die!
Ulysses G. Hocares