My Crippling Misery Is Ours to Share: A Word from Your Friend, T.T. Fulton

O dutiful familiars! Forgive a man whose trespasses mince most humbly into your letterdrop.

Under the ordinary coif, Your Friend T.T. Fulton would by no means trouble the spirited industrymen of Newsworthington Tidings & Bulletinne Transshipment Centre over Hastings County & Western Belfast Township: yet certain relations as these ought excuse batchen’d mailings. Further, the matter bears not upon the man’s brainpan, but beneath his hooves… I’ve tricked you!

Yet we remain friends. Such is the rich broth stew’n from our fixjawed amity, another smoothly lain coat of trust rung in with each ship’s bell. Your Friend T.T. Fulton may befool you with a caper of overs ‘n unders, and yet our twosome will swig and roar, free from the worry of bullyrag reproach or the breach of a spouse.

“His hooves?” you wonder; “Ah, yes,” I reply, as Your Friend has all but missewn his thread of purpose! To enforthen: though I may appear happy as an oft watered sword lily, intrue a bristly scoop of diffidence lay buried in my core, scritch-scratching away like so many bloodied neighborhood cats stowed safely in my basement.

An untowardly cry, of course! You see: Your Friend’s modest stature has been of certain hinder since even his most toddling days, a dumpy sprout horsing merry, scuffing his forehead on barreltops, left to endure the ceaseless mockery of children blessed with a steeper cusp, swelling pubescently with the known of lasses bearing preference for the more heightened gentleman. Teardrops! Fitly, I’ve sincewhile commited myself to the Wordly Arts (hence the letter before you, alongstwith a softcover 1st edition of Fulton’s Printified Diction no doubt resting within your eyeshot most sensible).

And yet the loins of a scholar will weigh with a certain hardship … or perhaps “flaccidship” is a term more befitting? A life of linguistic fidelity leaves this bunk frozen and ladyless, mocking me through the darkness even at this very instant, all a strain on my heart most (syn)taxing! Again, ‘tis all much akin to the nigh-dead cellar kitties made known shortly ago. (Pardon their encore, for our collective agony is of unrivaled compare...!)

Soggytrots! As our county’s most endurant spokeschap for self-fiddling, Your Friend T.T. Fulton has sought the correctance of some of Hastings’ finest professionaires. To Doctorman Jennings, relief amounts to a bucket of newborn leeches down my trouserfronts. To our town’s most distinguished phrenologist, D.L. Hughley, relief lay in new-fangled entallenmental scientifics. Not one to curtsey before the heathens of witchcraft and their toadying colleagues, I’ve opted for the methods of Dr. Hughley.

Now, then. I’m well aware a mere few of our townsfolk were won over by my latest and most contemporist feat, “Theodore Theroux Fulton Pencils the World’s Greatest Circle.” How one cannot marvel at a roundie eightsworth-breadth of Farmstock Gibbley’s portliest swine is of consequence to me no further. The sun rises on my crowning stroke!

Mine own fancy joints are gone, swapped for a heap of bruisened leggards and bloodened elbee-caps; all since healed, calloused and readied for this day. A spectacle is set to stride above your fair town, setting the womanly parts of our most symmetrical pretties off like one grande, majestic fountain of aphrodisiaction! My friends: you’ve heard the final aria of T.T. Fulton’s joyless opera.

The contrivance begins groundly: two cleated, steely plates stab at the earth like the beak of a golden eagle piercing the heart of an Ottawan. Bolted firmly atop rest a pair of oaken shanks, the height of each projecting Your Friend further heavenward. Wolfskin straps are affixed at their crest, buckling stoutly ‘cross my slippertops. The final product glows something erotic and amplifies my peak immeasurably; a work of human art and ingenuity that stands me on the level of gods; a machine I’ve christened “Fulton’s Stilted Shimmies.”

The practicabilities of such an invention are only as immeasurable as the span of your brainstem. In the pantry: that heavenly jar of pickles leering from on high? Buckle up, seize your riches, and send them hurdling back to the earth from whence they came! In the bedroom: sterility got your lady short a baby? The true man will stand tall for a private visit with the stork! Beyond the nest, stiltwalking will surely become the utmostest American sporte since Polk’s Cincinnati Shufflepucks!

Huff and puff aside, an era begins forthwith. No longer shall the gall and wormwood of Your Dear Friend stand thwarting his true destiny of unfuckedwith virility! No longer will Your Friend’s acquired fear of sobriety oft leave him topless in places of worship! Once marked a deviant, T. T. Fulton is no longer blackballed, no longer a big girl’s blouse! The transformation ends not merely at my hat but at the stop of my tongue, with a vocabulary that’s been expertly buttressed by spicy new quotations; pitching woo is now as effortless as the swiping of one of Baker Hatley’s finely sugared biscuits (sound out the ophthanarian, poor Hatley!)

Brace, dear Hastings. Your brides and daughters will soon clamber up my shimmies to fetch a smacker from the Earth’s finest towerman. And if not, I just might kill myself.

Your Friend, Always,
T. T. Fulton