Many of you have written The Onion to specifically inquire about the state of my health. Actually, no-one has. You heart-less bastards! May you die head-first in a pyroclastic lava flow!
Do you have any idea of the kinds of maladies and afflictions from which I suffer every day? I will now name for you but a small fraction of the diseases that wrack my ancient frame:
Hardening of the arteries.
Elephantiasis of the knees.
Soreness of the parts.
The Crimean itch.
Hoof and mouth disease.
As you can see, I am a veritable receptacle of pestilence, and it gets worse with each passing year. As if you care! I get nary a letter or telegram or a visit from any-one of you!
I can no longer maintain my aloof, dignified facade. Please, please come and hold me. I am a sick, feeble, lonely old man in need of comfort. Hold me! Hold me as a mother holds her first-born.
I beg of you, cradle my poor, blue-veined, egg-shell-fragile head in your young, healthy, supple arms. Gently caress my sore, boil-scarred limbs. Scatter daisy-petals upon my death-bed, and anoint my gout-inflamed feet with myrrh! But above all else, just hold me! Please! Please!