Whatever observations the correspondent might fling towards oneself, in the overrated name of 'frankness,' rebound from oneself and adhere to the correspondent. Dear Sir Charles, I have this crush on this girl. How am i supposed to talk to her without ruining my rep. Illiterate boy lusts after bovine female, who is obviously in the advanced throes of severe estrus. Tell her of your dreams of an early pregnancy, the birth of several babies who surely are the flotziest of the flotsam adrift on the gene pool, a job bagging groceries in the local supermarket, and perhaps, just perhaps, a tender, drooling decline in your autumn years holding hands in a home for those afflicted with Alzheimer's.
Baronet proceeds to slam correspondent in print.
One believes the poet Milton wrote an epic on such a theme. If not, he should have. Dear Sir Charles, Although I can never aspire to the lofty pinnacles upon which you perch, like Patience on a monument, sneering at the nouveaux riches , I, like you, am aspiring for a better level of life than can be found on the television tube and in popular recordings. To put it bluntly, I'm the mother of a young child and would prefer that the scion of my house not be exposed to off-color language. But it's so hard, my good sir.