Hell smells like Grandma

An open letter to the creepy hole in my closet,

Hey creepy hole in my closet! What's up? Do you mind if I just call you "Creepy" rather than "Mr. Hole in my closet"? Sweet, thanks. So...um....what's up with you? I know that's kind of a weird question....but seriously, what's the point of your existence, dawg? Were you some sort of vent in a previous life? Were you a laundry chute? Were you one of those cool dumbwaiters like on "Webster"?
Yeah, I hope so.
However....from the smell that seems to emanate from your...um....face (?)....it seems to indicate that you are a boarded up...ummm....PORTAL TO THE UNHALLOWED ABYSS OF THE DAMNED!!! And, dude, there is a dire need of some Plug-ins all up in that piece, yo!
Look, I don't know how you came uncovered....either 1) by the recitation of some ancient Egyptian text of the Undead by unwitting and poorly-chaperoned high school kids or 2) failure of the shitty packing tape used to seal the piece of drywall on. I'm with the latter, but there is an eerie fog and green glow in my bedroom....whatever.
What I DO care about is that you stop stinkin up my shit. My clothes smell like I've been sleeping in a cemetery [I'm not saying I haven't...it's just that my febreze has been rendered useless]. I need you to stop, or I'll do something drastic. Unless, of course, you actually ARE the portal to Hell. In that case, all hail our evil overlords. Sorry about all that dirty laundry in front of your portal.