Dear Mr. Cannibal,
Well first of all, why do you want to eat me? It’s not like I’ve been fattening myself up for the past six months in anticipation of you eating me. I don’t even have that much meat to spare. And the bit I do have, well, it’s in no way healthy. You know how they always say corn-fed when they’re talking about different kinds of meats? I think that’s supposed to be the benchmark of a good piece of meat, but I’m not really sure. Anyways, that’s not me! If anything, my flesh might taste like an old beer can that’s labeled “Banana-fed” and now used as an ash tray for cigarettes. Trust me, I just wouldn’t be that good to eat. I don’t even like the way my own body odor smells. Think about that for a second before I continue.
Moving right along, you think I haven’t noticed you stalking me? You’re everywhere I go, somewhere off in the corner trying to look all aloof, and it’s not working. Maybe if you weren’t holding a knife and fork, or wearing a dinner napkin around your neck, you wouldn’t seem so out of place. But I’ve seen you a lot lately, and I gotta tell you, you’re just not a good stalker. I saw you at the bowling alley last week. And I saw you at Dunkin’ Donuts the other day. And I saw you in line behind me at Duane Reade just this morning. What kinda stalker school did you go to anyway? I mean, it would be one thing if you were secretly stalking me for my inevitable dinner-plated end, but come on! There’s just no surprise anymore. If anything, I’ve started introducing my friends to your presence. Like the other night, I met some friends for drinks in the city, and I saw you drooling at the end of the bar, still holding your knife and fork and wearing that dumbass dinner napkin. I said, “Hey guys, don’t look all at once, but when you get a chance, check out the guy wearing the napkin at the end of the bar. That’s my cannibal stalker.” Eventually, everyone checked you out and had a laugh. But not because of you really. They thought I was making a joke.
Do you have time for an aside here? This is a serious question. I wanted to know if you were ever liked that late ’80s pop group The Fine Young Cannibals. Obviously, you’re kinda young, and you’re also a cannibal, but you’re not very fine at it. So I was really curious if you ever got pissed off when you heard The Fine Young Cannibals on the radio. Maybe you should look those guys up on MySpace and tell them that you’re an aspiring Fine Young Cannibal. Hell, maybe they can help?
So anyways, I wouldn’t be a good meal and you’re a bad stalker. Where does that leave us? Well, there’s a few ways this could go. I could play dumb and fatten myself up for your plans, but I don’t think that’s best for my future. I could instead start starving myself, making myself unpalatable and too weak to leave the house, but that would render your poor stalking skills obsolete. Or, I could find a better stalker, with more devious plans for my demise, leaving you in the cold on both accounts. But I’ve got a simpler solution to this dilemma. Well okay, it’s not simple. But it insures that I survive while bolstering your skills as a cannibal stalker.
So here’s what I’m going to do. Next time I’m walking home from the PATH Station, you’ll notice that I’ll appear larger than I usually do. It’s not really gonna be me though. I’ll be wearing a meat suit, the kind that Johnny Knoxville wore for the Jackass Rolling Stone cover shoot from a few years back. On the way home, I will appear to become woozy and faint on the sidewalk. When that happens, you can approach with caution and cut as much meat off of my meat suit as you like. Put it in your pockets after you cut it off and run away. Go home, cook it up and feed it to your dogs. I don’t even care what you do with the flesh. Then, after a few minutes, I’ll wake up and continue walking home. But from there on out, we’re done with each other. You get to satisfy your cannibalistic urges and I get to keep my flesh. End of story.
If you think this sounds like a plan, let me know later on tonight when we’re at the bar.