Good Work!

I should receive the Nobel Prize for Literature for this!

The Philistine 17 July at 22:55

Dear Pretentious Twat,

From the utter drivel you have painstakingly written, I am incited to inflict on you extreme violence, having inferred that you are begging to have your gob smashed in. I have consulted my friends and I am certain they are right to offer this piece of exceedingly necessary and righteous advice. Before I depart for Denmark, I may yet do this cesspit a good turn by eliminating a pretentious twat like yourself from the face of this planet. In my esteemed opinion, you are without doubt a blight upon the land, a shrieking and howling popinjay and a muddied orifice into which all the scum of the multiverse defecate.

This very real knowledge, coupled with the compelling desire of wanting to meet you for the express and delightful purpose of rearranging your face, has put me in a state of anticipatory elation. The 'paradoxical predicament' of 'To Meet or Not To Meet' goaded the creation of this dreadfully long and perhaps unnecessary proclamation of violence.

I must admit that I have also taken the interpretation of your friend request quite seriously - and warily - and so have entertained for some time of deciding whether to hire a hit on you or do it myself and dirty my hands. But it so happens that our legislation does not tolerate violence in any form and until the moment comes when I see your unimpressive face I cannot be certain if I would do the deed myself.

This indecisiveness I suppose we can see enacted in the local attitude towards sex I find in you and I believe you have plenty of experience in this regard in that your manhood, insignificant as it is, cannot be trusted to deploy its head on when to stand, or indeed, if it can made to stand. Surely, you realize the wretchedness of your condition is of no cataclysmic proportion and the world will revolve, life will still go on, and pigs will continue to roll in the mud regardless of your ability to effect an erection and to sustain it.

Hearing that you have known of my plans to go to Denmark is the final straw for me. I am absolutely horrified that you may want to follow me and hound me like a lapdog. And when push comes to shove, I would like to push my foot up your thin ass and shove it deep inside until tears stream from your vacant eyes and you beg me for mercy.

And I suppose part of the reason as to the severe trauma I suffer at this moment by just thinking of meeting with you is the horrific tension of degradation that I fear may be imprinted on my consciousness and which will resurface every time I visit the toilet. Your orifice of a skull, and a numbskull at that, would remind anyone of a glory hole in the seediest swill hole.

Of course, to understand your nonsense requires the patience of Gandhi, the insanity of Kim Jong Il, and the perverse imagination of Albert Fish. I am sure that you have a lot to contribute to abnormal psychology and I urge you to check in as a permanent resident at Woodbridge Hospital and give your body to science.

I end this letter by asking after your mother.

Sincerely,
The Brain.