My replies are in the brackets.
"Good evening, Karl, darling!
(I'm not your darling, darling.)
I sniffed the carpet at Chanel, and it did not smell
like anything ive (Grammar, hmm?) ever had the pleasure to smell
before. Smelled like a combination of Chanel No. 5,
expensive leather, and spray-on tan. Someone has been
stalking you. (Yes, security told me as I was airballooning over Paris spraying Chanel logos onto the clouds. Mr. Armani is now....otherwise occupied).
And I believe that someone is completely entitled to
look like an oompa-loompa when he deigns it
appropriate. (I think that someone has a responsibility not to hurt people's eyesight, hmmmm?)
Italy is tres demode. (Can't agree more! They had good food back when I ate, though. But that was in the 60s).
In fact, I work for Tom Ford, the much sexier man of
fashion. And I serve as a sharheolder for Chanel and
Fendi as well. Hence, do not anger me.
(Do not mention that...man ever again. He is so demode that even the homeless people in Africa wheeling their shopping carts around can't stand him)
(And, no you are not. Lying is demode, hmmm? As is working for Tom Ford. Anyway, Chanel would die without me. You know why? Because I'm Karl and you're not).
Instead, bow down. I own you.
(Who do you think you are? Are you one of my fired assistants?)
And if you call me demode one more time, I shall send
my robotic Karl Lagerfeld robots to beat you senseless
with Louis Vuitton Speedy 25's in the Monogram Canvas
until Chanel logos fall from your powdered wig.
(Even looking at a LV bag hurts my eyes. However, you fail to note my super-hero powers. And Anna scratches).
With dearest love,
(Vidal- you are demode. Even Chanel cannot save you! Best to wear a barrel).
P.S Tell Kitty I shall meet her after work."
(You'll find Kitty at my softdrink factory.)