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Drunken letters from the 19th century
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To William Baker, esq.
My dear friend! It has been so very long since we last spoke. Truth be told, I have been fearful of contacting you since our brawl a fortnight past. But in my current state, I could not care less about past trespasses. I am soused, to be sure, as we both were that unfortunate evening! Perchance we could dine together at the upcoming dinner gathering of our dear friends the Carlisles? I feel we could mend our differences, and take advantage of their plentiful supply of apple brandy! Have you had the pleasure of gazing upon their eldest daughter? That saucy trollop has a backside that you could bounce a farthing off of, to be sure!
Yours,
Jackson L. Douglas II |
Oh Francis,
I am most surprised by the lack of your presence at our latest gathering. May I inquire as to your whereabouts this evening? My how the victuals and spirits have gone to my head. I feel it thrumming by and by and I fear the passing hour will prove my humours are out of balance. Verily, I declare that I am in a most peculiar state. In a fortnight we shall gather again for a similar occasion as the evening's festivities shall bring a certain cheery disposition among those present. Perchance you will neglect playing the hermit and engage in our foolery? Indeed I pray on it, Francis. For never a man hath? Oh my! Does my timepiece yet deceive me?
The morrow shall find me in most distemper if I neglect to obtain rest while it is offered.
Farewell, my good man.
Bronson F. Heufert. |
To the esteemed alchemist,
Mr. Bartholomew Jacobs:
My dear sir, it appears that I have once again, in a state of pure bourbon-induced insanity, crushed my monocle beneath the heel of my boot. I hope that you have the necessary materials to provide me with a replacement as soon as possible, as in the mean time I shall be forced to eye suspicious characters disparagingly from my opera glasses instead!
Yours,
Asa Fredericks
P.S. My goodness I am full of liquor! |
Good Sir,
Dost thou perchance know the whereabouts of my carriage? I am most certain I and my most esteemed companion Bartholomew took it out for our trip to the tavern last night, but alas, in the morn's light, I cannot seem to recallst where we left it. I am also shocked to discover that I have awoken with a horse's brand on my back, and I am most angry that Bartholomew will not tell me what it sayst, only that it is "brilliant!" That old codger!
Yours in Earnest,
Cornelius James |
My dearest Lula-belle,
Since we've last spoken my loins have begun to resemble a Christmas tree. It behooves you to go down to the local clinician and let him take a lengthy gander. He should be able to give a prognosis as to what kind of devil curse has taken rest inside your pleasure box.
Achingly,
Sir Wilmington Firecrotch III
P.S. I would love nothing more than to sow my oats in you. |
Dearest Reginald,
I fear that I may have sampled too much brandy at tonight's soiree! I regret that it is only in my unabashedly inebriated state that I grow courageous enough to tell my heart's desires. In this state I do long to abandon my chastity in a night of revelry. O, if only our promenade had lead to thy chamber, and to the loosening of my corset! I imploreth thou not to make mention of this to my most honorable father, and to please not let this have any effect on your impending betrothal.
Fondest Regards,
Agatha Teveldahl |
Greeeeetings, Theodore!
I but yearned to inquire as to how you dooooo...Pray, return my missive. Forsooth, reply to meeeee...
Tidings,
Abraham J. Hensen |
Dearest Hector,
It has come to my attention that you, in an inebriated state, mocked the size of my twig and berries, comparing them to Andrew Johnson's credibility with the Deep South. I, also being inebriated at this point in time, would like to challenge you to a duel. I would prefer pistols, but if you lack the testicular fortitude I will settle for fisticuffs. Additionally, in response to your voracious attack on my manhood, I would like to clarify that not only are you inable to copulate with a female, but also that your mother earns her miserable wages in a plague-ridden brothel.
Cheerio,
Horatio Antison |
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