Your friend Behr (truest of all your friends - the others suck, admit it) has grown very weary of Mr. Blofeld's endless cocktail parties and ladies dressed in polyester being coy with me.
This is why I liked the 1970s almost as much as I liked growing up in Germany in the 1930s and 1940s. Low-profitability fabrics like polyester, big in the 1920s and 1960s, were gotten rid of and replaced with real fabrics made from the animals we prove our worthiness to God to by showing our dominance, enslaving them, torturing them, and killing them (then eating or making stuff out of them). I think we need to begin doing the same thing with our friends' pets and it needs to begin immediately. The next time you are at the home of a friend who has a pet, go ahead and completely fuck their pet up. Beat it, stab it, eat it, make a dresser out of it. Show your friend who the alpha in your friendship is. Pursuit of this attainable goal begins for you today. Get after it. Means a lot.
Once pets are done in and done away with in this fashion we can move onto the lesser humans. Nothing makes a lesser human more nervous than when you have them tied up and force them to watch you spitroasting and eating their aunt like a piece of venison. It is like one of those Visa ads where they show you some cheap ass shit any piece of garbage can buy with a little scratch and then show you something that is very expensive that only people like me can afford, like human souls. Watching your neighbor undress costs something like five bucks. Watching your neighbors doing sex is about ten dollars. Watching their expression while your roast and eat their aunt is priceless.
I have made demands of Mr. Blofeld that he take me in the helicopter to meet the Fuhrer immediately. Enough with the delays. He claims to run a criminal organization and thinks this will intimidate me. Does he not know that I am the infamous Bear of Berlin and I just need radioation, which he has offered me as some kind of hokey treatment for my badly distended and blackened belly. This gives me an idea, which I really brought into being when I borrowed a knitting needle and held it with both hands and jammed the sharp point into my belly button as hard as I possibly could. Six to seven inches of the knitting needle pushed deep into my guts and I hit something because gallons of blood-colored water and orange and green pus shot out everywhere. It was all over the floors, the walls, the ceilings, and the furniture. Damn near twelve gallons came out and my belly deflated. There is now what looks like an excessive amount of kielbasa hanging out of my belly, which split open with a six-inch long gash to accomodate the exiting of all that fluid. I piled it back in, along with another steak-shaped piece of me that I shoved back into me as hard as I could, grasping it in my fist hard enough to make it partially explode and then shoved it back inside me with the force I described at the start of the sentence. I got another knitting needle and some yarn and sewed that "bad boy" (internet kiddie slang) right up. Like they did in the old movies before men were pussified by their womenfolk, sew yourself up, take a shot of whiskey, and man the fuck up. That is what I did and I demand you do it soon or maybe one day a fatted hog will be eating your face one morning.
I licked the knitting needle clean and put them both back where I found them. Hopefully Mr. Blofeld has cleaning staff for the mess I made.
At least my belly is deflated now, if much of my innards are trying to push their way out through the yellow yarn I chose to go with my tie.
Demands for immediate helicopter were repeated loudly to Mr. Blofeld and associates.
My friends.