Death by Begging Letter 2

Here are some more of the begging letters that precipitated my early demise:

1) Dear John,

I’ve run out of sherbet lemons AGAIN. Send more “please”.

Fanny

2) Dear John,

When are you going to let me have a go with your dog? You know my mother won’t let me have one in the house. Why do you have to be such an ass about it? Just lend it me already.

Klaus

3) John old pal,

Do you remember my cousin Boris? He’s the one who’s worn the same T-shirt for 14 years and whose nose bled in your ghoulash that time when you came to visit the family but who only remembered to tell you after you ate it all? Ho ho. Good old Boris. What a character. Well his VISA is about to expire. It’s terrible. He’ll almost certainly lose his job at the mortuary. The doctor has said that there’s a 97% chance Aunty Ludwigia will have another mental breakdown if poor old Boris gets deported, and then there will be no one to look after little Vladimir and his 8 sisters.

But don’t worry John old pal, there is a gleam of hope, and that’s where you come in. How do you feel about entering into a civil partnership with old Boris? It’d just be for a few years until he gets his full citizenship. You’ll only have to sleep in the same bed  while ever the immigration officers are carrying out their overnight inspections to make sure you’re a bona fide couple. And Boris’s nosebleeds really aren’t half as profuse nor as lumpy as they were back when you last saw him. He’s quite a wit really. He’s got some great stories about the mortuary. You’ll be great together. The ceremony is tomorrow.

Cheers chum,

Pavlov

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