An Arbitrarily Aggressive Open Letter to All You Motherfuckers*

Dear Motherfuckers,

In light of my recent virtual castration at the hands of the nefarious Cher-bot, I have a bit of a bone to pick with you.

I have been a loyal servant of dis here blog for months now. Sure, my contributions may have been neurotic, ill-informed, and mind-numbingly self-centered, but nonetheless they have been contributed. Quantity over quality, I always say.

And for what? For my own personal gain? Surely not! Even were I in the ridiculous position of assuming there to be any tangible reward for entertaining the likes of you chronometer-analizing hedonists, the mere fact that I haven't packed up my word-bag and gone home suggests that I have put such trivialities aside and contented myself with not having been threatened with bloody murder.

I have stuck around for reasons unknown to myself, but reasons which must be good ones because otherwise why for the love of Xenu would I subject myself to such disrespect and soul-tyranny? And I would like to stick around for much longer. Unfortunately, I feel I cannot do so without an airing of grievances, without nailing my 95 theses to the wooden door of your little Internet church. So here goes:

Although I hold no grudge against the decision to let Joeltron spew forth his Courier-fonted opinions, I do have a problem with his being allowed to spew forth Courier-fonted opinions that have to do with me and Michael Jackson, whose sudden appearance in my brain as an undead child molester awakened what I assumed to be Catholicism-inspired demons my fragile psyche had long thought crushed. The danger this ginger-topped ragamuffin "scientist" poses should be recognized and thoroughly placated, possibly by ceding to him large portions of western Czechoslovakia (after, of course, we re-unite that fabled land).

Second, I have yet to see or hear evidence of any kind of ukulele-ability from one Travis Warren, who chooses to instead spend his time inserting hand-crafted timepieces into the gaping maw of his anus. Which is all well and good, but goddammit I wanna hear a ukulele song about it, and if he has to accompany himself via farting out watch-springs then all the better.

Third, Brooke Webber is not dead in much the same way that 2Pac is, and the sooner we all come to terms with both of these facts the better. Besides, I fear antagonizing the poor creature will only inspire her to unleash doom upon us all in the form of suicidal, retard-strong "clients" with a thirst for human blood.

Nathan Murphy you are overall a good enough sort of chap but I am still quietly seething about your self-deletion of the urine poem. I will respond to any future such fuck-ups with a steaming pile of disdain.

Blogmaster, blogmaster, blogmaster--there, I have spake your name three times, and thus have banished you back to the voodoo-hole from which you sprang. Your veiled attempts at denigrating my racial heritage have failed, although in all honesty they were good jibes, well done.

And as for Javier--Javier has treated me with nothing but kindness and respect, and therefore I present to him my Gold Star of Achievement, which curiously strongly resembles a semi-colon;

I thank you for allowing me to speak my piece, and eagerly await your undoubtedly contrite and apologetic responses.

Sincerely,
Patrick (no hiding behind Web-names here!)

*except those whom I do not know well enough to feel comfortable acting aggressively toward