Dear Ma'am and/or Sir, first off, thank you for not feeling the compunction to ticket my beater. As you can tell, my car is a loyal herald, but has certainly seen better days.
Recently, I became separated from my meteor of keys in San Francisco; San Francisco is not a good city to become separated from your meteor of keys in. For one thing, the weather is always changing on you so that one day it's solstice hot, and the next day the cold comes through like some arctic chrysalis.
Dear Ma'am and/or Sir, the missive I left for you under my windshield wiper carried no monetary recompense, or moral reward; you did what you did completely as an agent of your actions, and your actions allowed me to evade yet another $65.00 ticket for not having moved my car on a Monday morning from 8-10 a.m on Venice Boulevard. For this, I would like to accolade you out the wazoo.
I'd like to accolade you out the wazoo from the bottom of my little shriveled, black heart until it starts pumping thank yous out of its charred aorta.
I'd like to accolade you out the wazoo from the nadir of my billfold, from the back of the classroom where they teach Life Skills, from the rote existence of your patrol tricycle.
I'd like to accolade you out the wazzo for your opaque, yellow sirens: how they clamor in my head like gallant, galloping coconuts signaling your transportation emergency.
I'd like to accolade you from the bottom of my reflective lapels, from the Soylent Green on your uniform, thank you from my ticket quiver perforated in the ass part of your flattering pants.
I'd like to accolade you out the wazzo for not being an interpersonal, styrofoam graveyard of municipal codes and the lame compunction of fines, tickets, or legal attestations.
You know your uniform is quite becoming. The umber tones really bring out the effervescence of your cheekbones. You know, your cheeks, those old pillars of your smile, your innocent, mercurial smile.
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