Censor this Letter

I fart in your general direction, you son of a large collection of wave-swept sand. Two of Kevin's letters last year were not printed and now the trend continues. Two of Kyle's letters unpublished, Wayne's latest effort aborted, and now even Kruger fears the ruination of his 100% record of successful publication. We will massage your head with a brick, staple your broomstick knees together and shoot your teddy-bear. Pat Bartlett's got nothing on you, you censoring cocksucker. May you wig get scabies, your dentures explode inwards, your navel ooze putrescense and the warts on your big toe stand up in a public place and shout. "This man rapes chickens!". Cathy's drink is watered down something terrible and the Dominion has been reduced to its component sheets. Cathy also permits me to moan about the parking. There is Still beetroot in the bloody rolls (and therefore on the floor). Goodbye, you eight-armed leftist bubonic excuse for a Stewart Island crane operator. What are you going to do for a face when the orang-utang wants his arse back.