Dear Michael Bengal Muffler,

Ever since I met you, I felt an extremely close connection to you. You and I spent so much

time together and every fricken minute was wicked fricken awesome. Only twice did we get

belligerant and we were brown if not blacked out, so that’s ok.

But after one and a half years, you ran out on me. You left our happy home. You left a

small box full of two pairs of pants, a Charles Schwab briefcase, a couple of fairly shitty

Halloween costumes, and some ball powder. I used the powder.

And it felt good for a while, but then the powder went away. And I felt horrible. I know

you felt the same, because we are heterosexual lifemates.

But we parted. And the feelings disappaited a bit , but we wanted to preserve what we still

had. Together we decided that you’d sleep over once a week; I believed you. And I got


Michael, you did not sleep over once. We did not have the huge chews we talked about. We

haven’t played MLB all night with a sprinkling of hockey, football, and fu man doodie.

Where’s the potty talk that we knew a little too well and where’s the strange humping of


They’re missing.

And so I want it back. I want you to commit to sleepovers once a week. And I want to stay

lifemates, Mr. Bengal Mufflerman.

For Us,



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