The Sandlot

Dear Skank from last night,

I just wanted to write to you and express my gratitude for the wonderful time you showed me last night. Who knew that getting vomited on could be such an amazing experience. Were it not for you, fat-ish hoe in the red leather jacket, I might have had a bad time last night. But then you appeared like an angel from heaven, trying to shove me aside in your drunken quest to get to the front row. Bless your little heart you did not stop there, oh no. You honored us with a pyrotechnical-like display of your digestive system and were kind enough to not even apologize or alert us to the fact you had indeed puked all over a purse and of course, my lower back. Were I a more vengeful and angry man, I would have thrown you to the ground and rubbed your face in the pile of your insides you decided to share with the floor and my t-shirt.

So once again, you pig faced bitch bag, thanks for basically ruining what was, up until that point, a fantastic evening. I swear on my mother's grave that if I see you at the Town Ballroom again in two weeks at the Sam Roberts show I am going to piss all over the top of your head so that it cascades over your face.

Love always,

Cammy Cakes.