10 March 2009
An Appeal On Behalf of the Unappealing
FEAR not, dear readers, I have not hit upon hard times – I am still incredibly solvent. At least, as far as money is concerned.
However, not the same can be said for my utterly wretched and worthless scribe, Mr. A D Fanton esquire, who has not so much as hit upon hard times, but has had hard times hit upon him, pummel him senseless and then kick him in the head while he lies bleeding on the ground.
All of which is terribly amusing to me, of course – I enjoy nothing more than seeing the working class getting thoroughly twatted – but my brow furrowed ever so slightly when I was informed that this state of affairs may impact upon his ability to transcribe my journals.
Apparently, the handsome six-shillings a year wage I pay Mr. Fanton is insufficient to cover all his outgoings and expenditures, more so than ever since he recently became unemployed elsewhere and has yet to find other work. Probably because he is so ghastly.
I tried to suggest that maybe Mr. Fanton might like to cut back on luxury items whilst facing such financial hardship, to which he replied he hadn’t spent a penny on any luxury items for months, which I was very glad to hear, because spending a penny on a luxury item would be a terribly disgusting and revolting act.
He went on to explain that all he is spending money on is meeting his financial obligations, and food. I reasoned that maybe he might like to stop buying food, but he seemed rather nonplussed at that notion.
Then he went on to whine about how he had also recently lost the affections of the most beautiful and wonderful woman he had ever met, but quite frankly I stopped listening at this point. Well, there is only so much wittering one man can take, you know.
Of course, many of you will be wondering why I do not simply pay him more. Ah, if only I could, but even I have monetary concerns, you know. It is not cheap to live so lavishly, and my penchant for prostitutes is proving rather expensive as well. Why, I have had to cut back from twenty a day to just ten. Shocking.
So, seeing as how we are in the midst of the second anniversary of my astonishing adventures, I thought I might turn to you, my dear readers, for some assistance.
Mr. Fanton has worked tirelessly behind the scenes for the past twenty-four months, transcribing the jottings from my journals to the printed page, sometimes even going so far as to illustrate them with his delightful, child-like daubings. He has worked relentlessly to promote my works, and I do hope his efforts have entertained and enthralled you all.
We do not do this for money, of course. I do this for the adventure, the thrills, the excitement and the vast amounts of vagina I get to pump along the way, while Mr. Fanton does it because if he does not, I get to whip him into next Wednesday.
However, if any of you dear readers out there have enjoyed my astonishing adventures, and wish to demonstrate your gratitude to myself (and maybe Mr. Fanton as well), or simply wish to contribute to the upkeep of the journals (apparently there are costs involved, or some such twaddle), then please do feel free to give a small donation to my ‘Keep Mr. Fanton Alive So He Might Get On With His Work And Cease His Tiresome Bleatings’ fund, by using the PayChum service below:
I may even throw in a signed pictograph of myself to those who donate, as well as buckets of my love. Big buckets, filled to the brim, I say!
Do not fear if you cannot, these are tough times for us all and I certainly shall not think any less of you if you are unable to help. But if you can, why that would be simply marvellous, and would warm my cockles considerably.
This has been an appeal on behalf of the unappealing. Many thanks.
– Lord Likely.
