Dear Mr.R.W.Emerson,

I must apologize for my appalling behavior the other night. When one indulges in the finer beverages, he is apt to make a few social fauxpas. True, there is no excuse for my remarks. I would not rather be sealed in a malodorus tomb filled with rabid, famished rats for an eternity than spend an instant with your wife. Nor does her perfume wreak of a rotting corpse.

As for the drink that must have appeared to lunge out of my hands into your face, I am ashamed to confess such clumsiness... but one's reflexes are surely weakened by a three day binge of alcohol and gutter sleeping (That godforsaken cobble stone may have pinched a nerve in my back, leading to this uncontrollable neurological twitch).

As for the humiliating encounter where you discovered my hand upon your daughter, I must again apologize for my lack of muscular coordination. I meant simply to pinch her cheek... and I hope you will dismiss the remark about her being "easy" as merely a babbling alcoholic's drivel.

Perhaps I was also being quite presumptuous when I set your manuscript on fire. Mortal danger aside, It was not my intention for the flamboyant act to be taken literally, especially when I seemingly referred to the work as "the largest heap of inane manure I've ever assaulted my senses by"... It's simply that my fifth pint of demonic venom had warped my ability to effectively execute sarcasm. (Any of my dearest chums will relay to you my charming ironic wit, which sometimes takes the form of loud, angry slurring and seemingly destructive behavior.) Anyway, I hope this little misunderstanding will not sour you to my company.

 

Sincere Regrets,