Dear Ass,
It's been too long. I hope this post finds you relatively cogent. I suggest you find another vulgarian to read it to you very slowly, using the simplest of terms so that you may at least partially understand.
I find myself strangely compelled to respond to your ludicrous offer to me of a so-called olive branch. Sir, you may affix that bough into an orifice of your own choosing.
Should I apologize for any of my actions over the past 15 months? I think not.
Did I poison you, appropriate your vermin-infested home and put your cat in the microwave? If you remember these incidents in that way, so be it. Were you not deranged and your brain not a wormwood-adled sponge sopping with stale beer, you might remember that it was Mr. Dodger who poisoned you at my behest and Mr. Player who put your loathesome felines into the microwave in defense of my priceless polar bear rugs, from which your foul creatures had removed the eyeballs and defiled with vomit. Oh, how soon we forget.
May I also remind you that these two faithful servants of mine were brutally murdered by your associates, the inpenetrable Karl and the deleterious duchess of the deep? May I also remind you that the ghost of Mr. Player was then deceitfully turned against me, as was the ghost of My Dear Dead Friend Truman, by your absurd "team" of bloggers. Your memory, sir, and I use that term in the loosest possible of ways, is quite selective. Have you not a shred of decency?
Need I remind you that some of these very same individuals, thanks to the chicanery of the crows, are blundering their way through the past in a futile attempt to blot out my very existence? The shame, sir, is yours.
Am I to apologize for scattering your pack of dour associates? I think not. For hunting the green toad and poisoning your dear duchess? No, again. Next, I suppose you shall chastise me for hunting polar bears as well and turning them into rugs -- rugs, which I might add, were animated and turned against me as well!
Am I to apologize for banishing the poor from Allentown to live in the woodlands and building a wall to keep them out? I believe those people would still be happily foraging about in the verdant forest had the Spanish Armada not poked holes in the wall with their cannonballs. Oh, and about the Armada ... who was responsible for that hapless ancient fleet's return from its watery grave? You were, sir. You and your pet sea monster.
Am I to apologize for eating the human contents of several LANTA buses as if they were boxes of Goobers? Perhaps. But have you never been hungry? Chewy on the outside, yet gooey on the inside, with a divine hint of crunch. In my defense, those buses are habit forming.
Am I to apoligize for eating my half-brother Ronan? Do not judge me, sir, lest you yourself be judged.
Am I to apologize for the impalement of the code enforcement officers, deliverymen, process servers, Mormons, political candidates, direction seekers and flan sellers who found their way to my doorstep? I think not. Impalement is my cultual imperative. It has been widely practiced for centuries on the grounds of my various castles, chalets and yurts. My privacy is precious to me.
Am I to apologize for the destruction of Allentown? Don't hold your breath. Others were involved, Ronan/Cuchulainn, The Armada, Santa Claus, Gabriel and, most importantly, St. Michael the So-Called Archangel to name but a few. There is blame a'plenty to share and I'll accept none of it.
Lastly, sir, let me say this. I am the injured party in these matters. I have been wronged and I will most assuredly claim my retribution. No one, and let me be perfectly clear in this,
no one calls Marge poopyhead.
In fact, sir, when I am through killing the dubious St. Michael the So-Called Archangel, an important task from which you are distracting me at this very moment and for which you shall pay dearly, I intend to reoccupy your premises and impale you at the top of the PPL Tower. You shall watch as I feed your wretched cats to my wolverines. You shall be dismembered and become food for peregrine falcons -- if they will have you, which I doubt. Any parts of you that remain will be squashed like insects and reimpaled on tiny skewers and fed to fire ants, which I intend to import in vast quantities. I will hunt down your associates and impale them as well. I will feed them to the crows, which I will then make extinct, after roasting their leaders on my rotisserie and enjoying them for lunch with an iced bottle of pino grigio. Those associates of yours who are already ghosts will be dispatched to hell by my recent associate, Mr. Sam Zell. I am told coach Tom Landry has a position open on his team there for Mr. Player.
I will continue to destroy Allentown until not a brick is left standing. I will also use your Secret Room to convey myself into the past where I will destroy Allentown again and again, impaling, eating, crushing and microwaving as I go, provided, of course, the microwave will function in the past. I may need an extension cord; I shall make a note of that. When destroying the past becomes tiresome I will travel to Parallel Time and destroy it as well.
That, sir, is my apology.
Sincerely,
Marge
Hi, girls. The Octopus here. Can you believe the morningcall.com did not put me on their Web page today? Yoo-hoo, guys! Wake up! I mean Lindsay Lohan? Pleeeease! She is so six months ago. Get with the program. ... Anyway, I'm supposed to tell you another guy washed up in a toilet in Parallel Time. Whatever.
So what did you do with the my friends?
You have friends? ... The last two were sent to Parallel Time as I said. ... I'm not sure exactly where, however. Stall Number 2 is notoriously unreliable.
Actually, I stopped using the H a long time ago, dude.
Dear Ass,
I have been asked by a client to post the following correspondence:
As I embark on what I fear will be a fateful journey into Parallel Time, I would like to make amends to those whom I may have hurt in my previous life.
This is taking forever.
Time works differently here. You should know that.
I'm sure glad we didn't waste a reporter on this Final Battle Between Good and Evil of yours.
Yeah, we needed the manpower for the Taylor Swift story. She's local! She used to live just 60 miles away!
Time to finish with you.
Bring it, bitch.
Define baryogenesis.
Wait! I'll define it. Ask him something else.
