Dear Jeeves,
First off, I would like to thank you for your years of loyal service. You have been an asset to me, and I appreciate your hard work. This is not easy for me to say. After some considerable thought, I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go.
When I was first looking for a butler all those years ago, many people said I should not hire a monkey. "Sheldon," they all said. "Believe me, that monkey butler will come back to bite you in the ass." I didn't listen. Sure, I could have gone the road of all of my rich friends: hire an uppity British manservant; someone who attended the finest manservant school in all of Upper West Glaxonberryshire. But that isn't how I roll. You, of all my acquaintences, Jeeves, know that I am a man of the people. Stuffy is not my style.
Your story impressed me. How you raised yourself up from the mean streets of Dubuque, prostituting yourself for nickles and shaved deli ham. The story of your days spent freebasing Plochman's Mustard never failed to touch me. You had a drive that none of those fancy butlers could match. I remember the day you showed up at my home, not a penny to your name, smelling of tunafish, urine and gunpowder, offering your undying loyalty if I would just give you a chance. It was at that moment when I thought, "By god, I'm going to make this monkey my butler". What I got was not only a good butler, but a good friend.
I believe we had a good working relationship. A relationship based on trust and respect. Remember our trip to Germany? When I found out you slept with Countess Von Enorme Muschi, I laughed for days. I knew that she would fall for you and become incredibly clingy. You, however, handled it like the gentleman I always suspected you were. When I found you scratching yourself, I thought you might have a nasty case of the Berlin Crabs, but you never said a word against her. That, my friend, was class.
Somewhere along the line, though, things began to turn sour. First it was just little things. Remember the roller skates? When I asked you what you wanted for Christmas that year, all you could talk about was roller skates. How they would enable you to get more work done faster, not to mention the exercise you would obtain. I went out and bought the most modern, highest-end roller skate I could find. You used them twice. I have repeatedly asked you to stop smoking in the house, yet I continue to find Virginia Slims butts smashed into the parkay floor in the library. I request that you pick up some Cherry Garcia when you go food shopping, yet you insist on coming back with Chunky Monkey, even though you know I don't like bannana-flavored ice cream.
Your behavior as of late has been abominable, to say the least. John Mellencamp refuses to come back ever since you thought it would be a lark to leave a pile of your feces in his '68 Mustang, Eva Mendez was appalled to find you humping her purse, and Shelly Winters hasn't returned my calls since "The Incident".
At first, I thought it was just a phase, perhaps you were bored. Then I began to realize you were back on mustard. A sample packet here, a sample packet there, then a full-on bender. One of the saddest days of my life was finding you sprawled on the bathroom floor, your mouth stained yellow, empty Plochman's bottles spread around you.
I have offered you rehab, yet all I get is excuses. Well, today, old friend, I must draw the line. I have realized I can't help a monkey who doesn't want to be helped. Perhaps I am to blame. Perhaps I allowed the lines of our relationship to be blurred. Perhaps I should have resisted becoming friends and treated you as just another employee. I wish you well in your journey. Perhaps one day our paths shall cross again. Please leave the keys on the table by the door.
You broke my heart, monkey butler. You broke my heart.
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