To the leader of the Rygodancish forces,
I do not address you by name, because (by time I write this
and send this via foot page to rush off to our messenger pigeons that I am sure
you would shoot and waste your bullets on) you will probably have removed your
current general for another scandal of gay misconduct. I cannot keep up with
your shifts in leadership due to poor appointment choices to begin with. A
little advice, do your research and learn how to read people. I can send you
some book recommendations, but I understand this letter will be enough of a
reading challenge. I avoided using big words. Just sound it out if you have to.
Anyway, I originally wrote this letter in blood, for it is a
war letter. But the rain storm that came out of nowhere bitched up and bled the
bloody language etchings into a pink sheet of mulch. So from memory I had to
retype the ranting of my blood lust and put them on digital ink instead. The
rain storm also seemed to bring on a form of bird pneumonia which fucked with
my coop of messenger pigeons hidden in the mountains of Anguish Bugging. I have
no problem telling you of their whereabouts now. Go take a look! At their
rotting carcasses and puny bones! It is but an omen of the devastation I can’t
wait to pop down upon you. The best way to deliver this to you will be through
an anonymous tweet account, so search hash tag losing and be sure to refresh
because there might be things I want to add along the way.
I wrote this letter because I like to lay down my intentions
for all to see, even the opposition, your ugly mug. I have been incredibly
moody lately because my government privatized health insurance once again after
a great transition into Papa Kako Care but then decided one year into the program
that it couldn’t afford it any longer in face of a looming new budget deficit
created by the expense of the war I waged against you. So, my therapy is no
longer covered, nor my message therapy, so these knots in my shoulders are
making me a pissed off war monger and I am craving the devastation of your
military. I want it to be a sickening row. I want to skull fuck your men and
feed them to my new messenger pigeons whenever I get around to perusing the pet
store and falling in love with a dirty little bird that I just have to take
home. You might not know this, but I have feelings. Not for you and your race
of pallid flat faced back-deck monkeys, but for little animals that don’t have
obnoxious sayings, unlike your peoples and their unrelenting need to reinvent
popular mumbo jumbo. Really this war is about inspiring the Rygodancish to shut
the fuck up. And to devastate your currency so 3% of the Papa Kako Party
shareholders can enjoy the surge in the share prices of our new PeaPash
currency. It’s complicated, but the old currency is backed by shares in your
RygoFilet currency, and by crashing it, the PeaPash currency transition will be
pushed forward due to urgent necessity.
So, in short, I want to thank you in advance for taking a
whooping so I can be the war hero who brings economic stability to the New
Republic of Papa Kako. May hell hath appropriate accommodations for your thick
skull. I hope they drain your t-cells and marrow and feed them to the souls of
my dead messenger pigeons. And I hope you get to watch. And I hope they’ve been
fed very well, so they eat slowly. And I hope in hell birds have the ability to
laugh. Cackle even! Cackle in your thick, flat, probably pock marked face
(because stereotypically the Rygodancish have bad acne in their teens, we know
how terrible you looked when you lost your virginity).
I hope it rains blood when we hit the battle fields, in a
series of run down industrial parks that will create the right creepy mood. Please
@tweet me some incantations I can use to invoke the demons to make the rain
blood wish a reality. I know your people are lazy witches. I once read in
National Geographic an article about a Rygodancish girl who cast spells to get
her chores done. And we all know you guys are all the same. And don’t be shy
about tweeting this to me, for if it does rain blood, the blood will help smear
and bring some color to your soldiers pallid skin, so they will at least die
good looking. The only way to die with honor is to not look completely butt
ugly when you die. I can’t wait! I can’t wait! I can’t wait! I have several
fashion designers on hold to dress your corpses for our little ghoulish beauty
pageant we will host the day after your slaughter, which incidentally will be
All Hallows Eve. HAHAHAHAHAH!
With no regard for you as a person,
Colonel Fat Wrist the III
P.S. If things should not turn out to my advantage and
long standing wishes, and you somehow do wind up the victor, which is a fat
chance in anorexic hell, please also accept this letter as an apology, and go
easy on us if we survive in any capacity to become residents at your smelly
prison camps. In fact, you best treat me and my troops as one would be treated
at a weekend spa retreat, or I will kill myself and my ghost will be a
perpetual cold tornado in whatever bedroom you occupy for the remainder of your
stupid days as a little worm turd.
May the Good Lord bless you and fuck you.
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