Dear Mr. Conroy,
I am beginning to see the root of Grover’s weight problem, and it just may be you and your wife. With an extremely aggressive, Amazonian mother and a peculiar, somewhat lame, weird-metaphor-making father, Grover most likely became very confused by you and your wife’s mixed signals. In order to shield himself from this confusion, he turned to the comfort of eating. Trust me, I took a Child Psychology Class at Clackamas Community College. I definitely remember the chapter on parents that make too many career-specific metaphors.
Speaking of Grover, he’s definitely not found yet. Everyone has given up hope besides me and your wife, but we both have this feeling that he’s still out there; clothes covered in animal blood, heightened sense of hearing, slowly forgetting the English language and developing a more simple series of grunts to express himself. Your wife seems to think that a bit of her killer instinct transferred to him, and I can’t quite disagree. In his time at Camp Kerchoki, the North West’s premier summer excursion for teens of abnormally large size, he definitely tried killing some things/people.
On to the matter of the Tri-Battle. With all-due respect, Mr. Conroy, you are very much mistaken as to my intentions towards your wife. Don’t get me wrong, she is a wonderful, strong, deadly female with thighs that can cut an oak tree in half. However, I tend to be more attracted to women who don’t wish to control every waking hour of my existence. It’s just a personal preference, of course, to each his own. So, unfortunately, I may have to decline your Tri-Battle offer.
If I were to accept, my category would most certainly be “Performing Motivational Speeches from Sports Movies in Costume.” I usually don’t like to toot my own conch shell, but my Kurt Russell as Herb Brooks in “Miracle” will make you want to shoulder-check the next Russian you see onto his filthy commie ass. Yes, its that good.
Your wife asked me to tell you hello and that she anticipates coming home with your VERY ALIVE son and wrestling you until you start screaming in tongues, like you apparently always do.
So Mr. Conroy, as always, I will contact you as soon as I have more information about the whereabouts of your son. Until then, enjoy that whole cheese thing.