Walter Reed Army Medical Center

7100 Georgia Ave. NW

Washington, DC 20307

March 19, 2007

Dear Walter Reed Hospital,

I think I may have fractured my ankle. But don’t tell my family! I want them to think it’s broken. Tell them it needs amputation if you will. In fact, please do anything to keep me away from those wretched people. Basically, I want to be admitted to your hospital, but I need my stay to be prolonged as much as possible so I can get away from my family.

When I get there, I was wondering if you could have enormous stacks of useless paperwork (in triplicate) for me to fill out. Then you could say something like “Oh, sorry sir – looks like you filled out the wrong paperwork! [wink wink].” Then, you could shuffle me from room to room and have doctors go “Hmm… have Johnson take a look at him. I’ve never seen the likes of this before.” If the real doctors are busy (I can’t imagine why) you could have janitors dressed as doctors. It doesn’t matter since I won’t be treated.

Actually, can I just live there? I have my own apartment; in fact, I have moved seven times to hide from my relatives, but they always find me somehow. “Kiss your mommy!” my mommy – er, mother – says, squeezing my cheek. “You can’t do that to me. You’re not my grandmother,” I tell her politely. “Grandmothers do that.”

My sixteen siblings, who are all younger than me and whose names all begin with “F,” only like me for my money. I have $500 in the bank. They want it. But I am saving it up for clown lessons. No more mooching, I say!

So what do you think? As the nation’s premier hospital, I think you can handle me. I will pay for ALL expenses, including food, water, bedpans, etc. There will be no visitation from my family, and I will live in solace at your fine establishment. Please let me know soon how you can extend my stay as long as possible. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Kevin Dickinson

My ankle hurts. But don’t actually amputate it.

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