Sorry I’ve been neglecting you of late but I am extremely busy glad-handing the multitudes who flock from far and wide to stare at my glorious, peanut-shaped head. It’s my fault. I’ve spoiled you. You’ve accustomed your greedy, piggy little self to timely and regular feedings from the jowly teat and now deprivation has hit you smartly between the eyes like a drunken dinner lady.
I can see you now. Thrashing blindly in a viscous emulsion of your own effluent like a smack-head trapped in a wheely-bin, clawing at the walls with your bloodied stumps, face torn into a burlesque of howling self-pity.
Are you flab-famished? Wrinkle-ravenous? Paunch-parched? Course you are. Well here’s a little fix to tide you over. It’s Gandalf after he’s been honking on the Halflings’ hash-pipe and just spunked all his Hobbit groats down the warg track.
Lots of love,
Your doting son.