A Letter to Mother

Dearest Mother:

    I’ll not waste any precious time with ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’, but I shall get right to the point. Do you recall that convention that I attended in New York? The one that discussed gastric bypass surgery? Well it turns out that the whole thing was rigged by a gang that used the whole thing to take advantage of obese people in America; I mean, some people invested their life’s savings into this surgical program and they lost everything. About that…
    Well, it’s a horribly long story but I shall endeavour to tell it to you in the most realistic way possible:
    I started my day with a cup of coffee and a box of donuts from the local donut and coffee joint. I happen to eat there every morning, as they make the most delicious deep fried donuts that I have ever tasted. Anyways, after thoroughly enjoying my breakfast I made my way over to the bank to have an inquiry concerning my account, you see, I had to have all of my account information ready for the convention so that I could begin my surgery as soon as possible. They made it seem so convenient, I just handed them my PIN, and they withdrew the required money for me. The excuse they used for this was that they did not know the exact cost of the surgery, but that it would be under two thousand dollars and that my PIN number would remain confidential. After I went to the bank, I walked a half block to a local corner store, (my goodness, I never knew how tiring walking could get; next time I shall take a taxi!) where I purchased an extra large cola and two hotdogs with cheese sauce to tide me over until lunch. Afterwards I went down to Truman’s Custom Clothing Outfitters to pick up a new suit for the convention – they are the only clothing store that I can shop at as all of the others cannot produce a suit that fits a size 61 waist. After perhaps an hour of me trying on clothes to get a comfortable fit, I finally chose the ideal suit and left to find a taxi, which I took to a local restaurant that my friend Phil recommends for their baked ham. When I walked through the door, a waitress in an elegant uniform asked me if I wanted a table or a booth. I was quite affronted by this awkward question but decided to humour her and take the booth - the ham was indeed the best ham I have tasted in many a year. At two o’ clock I left the restaurant and went to the office to change and freshen up a bit for the convention, which started at three thirty. I had barely slipped into the suit pants when I heard a thunderous ripping noise and discovered that the pants were indeed a size too small. However, my secretary is quite proficient with a needle and thread and she soon had them patched up, with a warning not to make abrupt movements with my legs. When this stressful ordeal was over, I realised that I was five minutes late for my convention, and my secretary (she really is a dear) offered to drive me.
    When I arrived I was shown to my seat by a man in a tuxedo who smiled pleasantly at me as he collected my bank information. Then the Head of Staff, as he called himself, stood up and announced that the whole thing was a scam, and that our money had been put in a bank account and shipped across the world, and that we would never get our precious surgery. Now you see, mother, I was having none of this, so I immediately headed for the door, pushing my way through the throng of outraged individuals. But to my horror there were gang members blocking each door – I was trapped like a rat in a cage.
    “Now my morbidly obese friends,” The man at the podium was shouting, “All of you are going to take a jog. Twenty laps around the inside of the building!”
    I stood there in horror, listening to the moans of the people around me. It was awful, mother, just awful! The men at the doors forced us at gunpoint to start running around the interior of the massive building. It was sheer torture; I saw many people collapse after the first ten steps; I myself completed half of a lap before fainting into oblivion.
    I awoke sometime later in a hospital, where I was being treated for shock and overexertion. I noticed with disdain the hydraulics attached to my bed, what kind of doctor would put hydraulics on a patient’s bed? He told me that a normal bed would not support over four hundred pounds; I sarcastically thanked him for this information.
    The doctor also informed me that the police had arrived on the scene and arrested one of the gang members. The others escaped with my money. The doctor said that he was sad to inform me that I was flat broke. Then he handed me the medical bill.
    That is the story, mother, I endeavoured to write it as short as possible and now I am begging you from the bottom of my penniless heart to help me out of my financial situation by paying my medical bill and sending a support check of a thousand dollars at the end of every week until I can pay off my debts and expenses. Also, if it is not too much to ask, would you also be able to pay the required fee for my surgery, it is five hundred dollars and will be done by a professional. Food packages would also be greatly appreciated as my government support fund is barely enough to buy groceries for a week.
   
With love,

Jim.

P.S: Would you also pay for the postage on this letter? I haven't the pocket money to buy the stamp.