time-traveling chevy chase

Today we have a letter whose sights are zeroed-in on perennial soft target, Chevy Chase.  With time-traveling abilities.

TO:  CHEVY CHASE OF PRESENT DAY

FROM:  CHEVY CHASE CIRCA 1987

Present-day Chevy,

Two words:  Bill Murray.  It didn't have to be like this.  In fact, you should be the one writing this letter to me, like Marty McFuckin McFly, warning me cleverly about where I will initially head down the wrong track.  Where's the clairvoyance, you fatass hamhog unfunny piece of shit?  I guarantee you the future Bill Murray wrote this letter.  But you, I bet you're too busy waving around that little vienna sausage dick of yours, aren't you?  I don't have to guess what you were up to for the last two decades.  I know what kind of stuff I'm into, and it sickens me to look in the mirror.

Oh, Chevy.  If only they could all see inside our disgusting black heart.

This letter, if you're interested, is just to inform you that I made an appointment with an assassin in a Colombian cartel to break into my house while I sleep and chop my fuckin dick off with a machete.  This is the only way I know of to stop you from the diabolical, mediocre path you have set before me.

Feel free to unzip your pants and observe that you have no penis--maybe no balls either, my Spanish is quite poor.  That withered little abomination of a reproductive organ is history.  He is set to perform this merciful act (or, at your place on the timeline, performed this merciful act) in 2005.  Your (and my) failure is essentially in the books by then, from what I can tell.

This doesn't have to happen.  I can cancel the order anytime.  You think I want to ransom my own dick and possibly balls, Chevy?  You of all people know how hard this is for me.

If you want your precious dick and balls back, YOU WILL find a way to keep me from ruining my career and YOU WILL work out a scheme to get that letter to me before it's too late.  I will not suck mightily for the second half of my life.  I refuse to gaze back at Clark W Griswold and a fuckin golf movie character as the apex of my career.

Set up a trusted courier (do you ever trust anyone in your misty, drug-fueled life?) to deliver the letter to my mansion once I'm exceptionally rich and losing basic awareness of reality.  Ziplock it and slip it into the dampest vagina you can find in my favorite Tokyo whorehouse and tell her to birth it to me after we have an established customer/client relationship.  I don't care how you get it to me, but get it to me.
The sooner the better, obviously.

80's Chevy Chase