We received this crazed email at 2 am last night, from actor "JRM" <-- br="" duh.="" henry="" king="">
This is obviously fake but non the less HYSTERICAL! We hope you enjoyed this fine bit of literature.
Dear Pink:
Upon furious research, It has come to my attention that you are spreading rumors about me via your show.
There are a few thing's I'd like to clear up
1: I do not look like nor have I ever looked as though I have "Crystal Meth" eye. I'm only slightly offended by being addressed as meth eye or coke eyes.
Upon reading several reports containing these malicious lies, I have decided to tell my own story. Maybe that will clear things up for you and your "creativity killing" hounds.
Whilst my taping my "hit" TV series, I found it pertinent to hone my craft, for taking my craft seriously is all I care about. So, I honed and I honed until I got it just right.
Various life experience helps me to perfect my craft as you will understand upon reading further.
During the past few years, I became increasingly entrenched in the L.A. scene, I had been given the gift of "good looks" but it turned out this gift was also a curse. To understand fully you would need to go back to the beginning, I jest not, this is no "pun".
You see, I learned that as young lad that your home is not to be lost when you leave. In Dublin, I'd wistfully stare out upon the murky waters of the river Liffey and say to meself "I gotta get the hell
outta here". Now living in LA I realize that there is nothing I want more than to go back... Home.
Lying in me bed quietly singing "Sunday bloody Sunday" reminiscing about the days long past, days when I wished I was cool like Bono. Boyhood at home was much simple and uncomplicated, but the US was something "different".
Stepping off the steps of the great ocean liner into a vast abyss filled with the faces of the "unclean" and obviously unwashed. Foolish was I to imagine the streets would be paved with gold when in reality they were carpeted with cocaine, untamed homosexuality and aerobics whores.
I made haste in obtaining employment, tending bar at a prominent night club; frequented by famous directors, producers and their filthy agents. I was soon approached by the representative of a semi-prominent fashion house. They secured a contract with me, signed in a bathroom stall dotted in gobs of cocaine. Did I mention, the modeling contract was to purchase my services as a stunning and talented underwear model? Completely high on success and large sums of cash, I was able to purchase a somewhat luxurious estate, whereupon I kept several men fit and well fed comfortably housed in "Ikea brand" stables. You call them tiny homes, I call them stables... tomato... potato.
In those days, we loved a good time and being pampered, so I purchased supplies to fashion our very own horsetails which would be worn snug in our tight little arses. Who doesn't love crafting? Not I.
You want the truth about the "Meth Sheds" on my land? There you go, they were then and always were a hub for creative handy crafting.
I write this letter in the name of love, one man in the name of love!
Love Meth, I mean "me"..
Rusty: He see’s through you with his cokefrozen eyeballs
Pinky: Indeed.
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