Dear Tottering Moron,
Why when I was opening my emails this morning in the vain hope that I may be contacted by a true friend, my long-lost lover, malevolent aliens, or government agents, I was delighted to find your stupendously insincere message imploring me to do your bidding solely and absolutely for your benefit, because as we both know I am an altruistic person who cannot possibly resist doing a favor for someone in need.
Since it is the case that I spend my Friday evenings contemplating suffocation by an inert gas while mixing cocktails for myself until intoxication causes me to pass out in a drunken stupor, surely I cannot blame you for supposing that I would rather solve your problems than lay in a catatonic state experiencing the incalculably dull sensation of loneliness in the lightless hell that is my apartment.
Kindly engage in a thought experiment with me. Imagine that my toilet is overflowing because I have flushed too many of my drugs down the drain and the sewer system will no longer tolerate my substance abuse. As I lay on the bathroom tile drowning in toilet water, I suddenly have the brilliant notion to call a plumber at random and ask him, “Dear Mr. Plumber, my toilet is fucked up because I am a tottering moron. Do you have any free advice to offer me concerning my fucking around with it using this wrench? Or perhaps Mr. Plumber, whom I slightly revile because you spend the majority of your time perched over a porcelain bowl of feces, you could donate your time to my fantastically idiotic cause, as your expertise with pipes is not worth $60 per hour?”