still clinging to the last shreds of the punk scene were impressed, I guess.
Many of them stood like vacant manakins, mouths agape in dumb worship
of an idol whose aura has now faded to a pale glimmer of what it once was.
Backstage, however, things were different. Perhaps it was simply a matter
of proximity to such incredible virility as mine that reawaked the passion and
fire that had once made Ms. Harry the punk goddess that she was but she
wasted no time showing me that, at least in one art, she is still a dynamo."
It stil pisses me off to read that. As if you could ever have a chance with me, Ken. As if I would ever stoop that low. For the record, I think I would have to be completely mentally disabled from, say, a back alley lobotomy using a pool cue, before I would ever allow myself to even be alone in a room with a deranged loser like you. I don't care what they say about this mythological zen cunnilingus technique that you've mastered. I wouldn't let that diseased tongue near me if it was in a jar of formaldehyde.
But that didn't stop you, did it? You wrote eleven more articles describing our "relationship" before the record company's lawyers got to you. What relationship, Ken? Maybe I should explain that just because someone writes hundreds of filthy fan letters to someone begging for descriptions of them taking showers with other female pop stars, it doesn't mean they have a relationship. Nor does it if someone sleeps on your fire escape for a week. Not even if they send Dee Dee Ramone over with four dozen roses to plead on their behalf. No matter how hard he cries.
And that stunt you pulled on the set of Videodrome? Do you know that James Woods, to this day, has intensive weekly regression therapy to try to rid himself of the memories of that incident? And have you noticed how disturbing David Croneberg's work has gotten since then? Not a coincidence, shithead.
So, please, if you're going to go through with this, at least tell the misguided little whore what she's getting into. If the simple evidence presented in your overwhelmingly demented body of work isn't enough to convince her that you're a bad gamble, then maybe this letter will help. Then again, maybe the dirty trollop can't even read, I don't know. And if this letter seems similar to some of the other letters I've written to you before your other weddings or if it sounds like some of the messages I've left on your answering machine or through your agent or at your office or in your e-mail, then so what? The world needs to know what a slimey, no-good, unfaithful love panther you are.
And the restraining order stays in place, in case you even care. Until you come back on your hands an knees and beg me to remove it.
© Ken Socrates 2005. All rights reserved.