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. 

The Power of Thinking Things are Shitty (while hanging out with money)

I’ve been thinking a touch on the economy. How dismal it is still projected to be, the slim job market, low stock dividends, profits slipping, slipping. And it’s interesting, especially when you try to digest it from a scientific, physical, chemical perspective. One of the laws of energy is that it can neither be created nor destroyed. In the public eye there is the bombardment of the image that wealth is vanishing. But no, it’s still there, it’s just held on to, stockpiled. Which leads me to think; that this financial crisis is not of a physical nature. The physical money has not disappeared, the dent in finance is of a mental origin. The cries and moans of Wall Street on the mess they created for themselves created shockwaves of perceived panic and loss which cause so very many to cringe and freeze their wallets and accounts. Businesses announced their wage freezing, budgets had to be cut all around because shards of trepidation were pumped into everyone’s mind, that of shortage, so everyone acted accordingly. Well, the mind shapes its environment…maybe not directly, but it influences the comings and goings just enough to make wishes, gleeful or dour, come true. Even money. Greenbacks, copper, and nickel do not like to hang around the nervous energy of panic, they’ve made that much clear. Perhaps the various currencies should douse themselves in chamomile and valerian root powder and tickle us to relax us enough into loving them again. For then, and only then, will money wear out its welcome. Again.

The Tripping Point

Some say language developed after ancient, pre-historic tribes in Siberia took magic mushrooms. Can we in turn also trace the development of currency to this trippy incident? Territorial behavior is inherent in most if not all animals, but when we could start saying "mine" and drawing up contracts, the imaginary agreement on the value of ownership took on more weight. As words become symbols of cognitive gems, so does the coin become a bragging right - points of having.

That strange trip could have gone differently of course. It could have frozen man, in psychological stone, ice, shifting away that desire to share and to communicate a sudden and boundless vision...that in this sad turn, doesn't ripple. They grow apathetic, giving away all they got to the wolves because the coldness of the cerebral image makes them want to wither and have nothing to do with life, nothing worth holding onto.

Point is, all of our greed and backstabbing and talking obnoxiously out turn, is perhaps a more colorful course of events. Keeps you on your trippy toes.

The brain is like a wreck-less object in space. It's starts things that don't stop. Things so simple as moving from point A to point B, but is melting to become point Y and then some other point of a letter we're still working on conjuring up.