Wednesday, January 18, 2012

A Taunt to the Rygodancish

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. 

No comments: