The Manager
Y.M.C.A Hotel
London, England
Roma, 1 June 1971
Dear Signore Direttore
Now I am a-tella you a short story how I was-a-treated at your hotella.
I am a-comma from Roma as a tourist to London and stay as a younga Cristian man at your hotella.
When I comma in my room I see there is no shit in my bed - how can I sleep with no shit in my bed? So I calla down to receptione and tella: "I wanna shit". They tella me: "Go to toilet". I say:
"No, no. I wanna shit in my bed". They say: "You better not shit in your bed, you sonnowabltch". What is a sonnawabltch?
I go down for breakfast into ristorante. I order bacon and eggs and two pissis of toast. I getta only one piss of toast. I tella waitress and point on toast: "I wanna piss". She tella me: "Go to toilet". I say: "No, no I wanna piss on my plate". She then say to me: "You bloody hella not piss on the plate you sonnawabltch. What is this sonnawabltch?
Later I go for dinner in your ristorante. Spoon and knife is laid out, but not fock. I tella waitress: "I wanna fock", and she tella me: "Sure, everyone wanna fock". "No, no, you don't understand me. I wanna fock on the table". She tella me: "So you sonnawabltch wanna fock on the table. Get your azz out of here".
So I go to receptione and ask for bill. I no wanna stay in this hotella no more. When I have paid the billa the portier say to me: "Thank you and peace on you".
I say: "Piss on you too you sonnawabltch. I go back to Italy! I never comma stay in your hotella no more, you sonnawabltch!"
Sincerely,
Sperminelli Vermechenti


(I already know I am.)



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