The Fucked Up Mailing List 2010

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Vitriol,

Okay, THIS time you will find enclosed a copy of MSY1, provided I am not such a retard as to AGAIN stick this letter in a regular envelope when I get home, rather than the shipping envelope that contains your copy.

This sort of mushy-headed thinking is part and parcel of living in the high desert.  It's a combination of sunstroke and anoxia, and seems to be unavoidable.  In any case, it helps me to fit in with my fellow Americans, who are by and large a pack of howling swine.

Oh, yes.  America™ in the new century is not a pretty sight.  Insane teabaggers, vicious cops, bumper to bumper traffic on Sunday afternoons...It is an ugly time, with ugly people.  It is a time when Bad Things happen to stupid people, and if you can't state your case to The Man, you're well and truly fucked.  Hydroencephalitic skulls, pencil necks, and fat asses are the defining trait of the 21st Century American.

Indeed, it's an ugly scene, and I would flee, were it not for the humor of it all.  It's like living in a 3 Stooges episode, only Curly has been replaced with Hannibal Lecter...No, scratch that, that's far too classy a bad guy.  I'm thinking Roy Cohn.

So I suppose I'll stick around, and watch the aforementioned Bad Things happen to random idiots.  For example, yesterday I watched some dumbfuck get pissed at a Pima County sheriff's deputy...He was upset that the deputy had pulled him over for merely driving 60 MPH in a 35 MPH zone, and eventually said the magic words..."Do you know who I am?"

Cops love that shit, Doktor, they love it the way you and I would love having Lady Gaga ring our doorbell naked at 3AM on a Friday night.  They wind up doing basically the same thing to the Big Shot that you would do to Gaga, only far, far less pleasantly.

The Yahoo was dragged away screaming and cursing, as the crowd on the sidewalk looked on and laughed. Nobody felt an iota of remorse...Especially if he really WAS a big shot.  That would only make it more delicious.

Whoops.  Got a little off topic.  Anyway, enjoy the comic...The artwork is substandard, but it was Kim's first effort...It will also be her last effort, as word of her insane lawsuit against me has spread to every indie press comic joint in America, by way of the backchannel editor's forum.  Oddly enough, I had nothing to do with this.  She must have ran her mouth in front of the wrong people.  Funniest part?  Due to this being a communal property state, she had to name Maria on the lawsuit.  Maria isn't happy about this, not one bit.  Ho ho ho!

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Eater of Clowns,

They got Bungee Joe, man, they shot him down like a dog in the street, for no good reason.  He was just coming out of Sandra's Fish and Chips, and they shot him full of holes, to the point where he looked more like a pomegranate than a man.

We're running out of heroes, up here in the high desert...Bungee Joe might technically have been a criminal, but I never thought of him that way.  Joe was more of an adventurer, in a world that has no room for his kind, anymore.  He wasn't a bad guy, he was born and raised proper, I guess life just bugged him.

I guess the cops win again.  They got him, even if it wasn't actually the police that shot him, just like they got Dillinger and Ma Barker and Curly.  Sometimes the cops do it themselves, and sometimes they just make it happen, through people they have their thumb on.

And they HAD to kill Bungee Joe.  He was too loud and too proud and they couldn't get him to shut up.  He hollered and hollered, no matter how often they beat him...Until it started to get publicly embarrassing, and they had to make sure he finally shut the hell up.

You see, Joe was an old world man.  He believed in freedom and having a good time, and they believe in a nice happy utopia where everyone is safe and happy and nice.  And Joe was in the way of that, if only in South Filth...And Tucson is determined to "clean up" and become the next Portland (Ye Gods), where everything is clean and sanitary and shiny...Which doesn't exactly leave room for people like Joe and I.  And you, for that matter.

We like our fun all dirty and wrong, and we're not ashamed to say it.  We hang out with perverts and thugs and loose women, and we prefer driving like a maniac, with a head full of pills and a back seat full of guns, over a nice night out bowling or whatever the hell the vanilla drones do on a Saturday night.

We know the face of degeneracy, and it knows us.  It is in fact the only thing we love that loves us back.  We are, you and I, the last surviving members of Saturday Night in our respective cities.  How the fuck did that happen?  I can clearly remember a time when things were different, when we wore leather jackets and drove horribly illegal street machines that existed only to go really fast and have a large back seat.  We carried bicycle chains in our jackets and rubbers in our jeans and hatred in our hearts and...

...We haven't changed a bit, have we, cats?

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Kalera,

Enclosed, you will find masks of Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon.  They hung over my computer when I lived in Chicago, and I am passing them on, so you can do the same in Portland...For sinners such as you and I are in need of their guidance.  They have never steered me wrong, though they were and are mysteriously silent when it comes to NFL betting odds.

That's particularly strange in the case of Nixon, who followed football with an intensity that matched every other thing he did, for good or for ill.  Nevertheless, I can only hope that they give you the same sage counsel that they gave to me, on those endless nights when the temperature just won't come down, your bourbon stocks are low, your frop is moldy and won't light, and lawyers pound on your door waving writs and screeching about whatever it is they think you did this time.

Well, fuck them, K...We don't need them.  They are tiny men who squeak like a dog's chew toy...They move like lightning, but speak only gibberish.  They have no place in the new century, and they will be ground under foot with the rest of the swine.  They are a plague, but will last precisely 10 minutes after The Incident (Whatever The Incident happens to be.), and will be nothing more than pudgy food for aggressive coyotes.

History has recorded Reagan and Nixon as bad guys, but I kind of miss them.  They were warriors, Kalera...They knew why we hated them, and they didn't care.  Contrast that with limp dicks like Dick Durbin (D-IL), who called Guantanamo Bay a form of Nazism, then fell all over himself apologizing to Dick Cheney.  Nixon and his merry band of felons would have beaten Dick Cheney senseless on general principles, then they would have taken turns using Dick Durbin as a condom.

They were giants, K, even if they were evil, and the world will not see their like again.  No, we are stuck with a lesser breed of politician these days, a milquetoast crew that you can see right through, if they're between you and a bright light.  Ronald Reagan would have them all beaten through the streets of DC, leaving them unconscious and bleeding in Baltimore, all covered in strange welts and puncture wounds, with large sections of their memories missing, their thumbs tied together, and wearing Minnie Pearl's old dresses.

This may be exactly what you need.  The stern faces of the Last Great American Politicians looking down on you, when the fuckup fairy comes along and you decide to paste a slaphappy grin on and stick your ovaries back in the meat grinder.  When you feel that goofy urge coming on, just gaze upon their faces, and let the (admittedly evil) wisdom of these elder statesmen guide you back onto the straight and narrow.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Lex,

Words cannot describe how it felt returning from Boston and Providence to this hellhole.  This place has even managed to fuck up urban blight, though you have to leave for a while to notice it.  It's 40 miles long, 5 miles wide, and an inch deep.

And you have WOMEN there.  Real, actual women...Whereas the combination of poor diet, alcohol, drugs, and punishing sunlight has rendered our female population into something that looks like Queen Nefertiti...After she was mummified, and left in a desert tomb for 3000 years or so.  Only with worse teeth.

And they flirt, Lex.  They try to come on to you, and your balls crawl up into your stomach, pause for a moment, and then sprint for your throat.  It's like dawn of the dead, if all the zombies though they were the next P!nk.

And those are the ones in decent shape.  The rest are on mobility scooters, 400 pounds of doughy-skinned horror wearing a "Princess" tee shirt and screaming "You can't HAVE this!" while they shovel another chili dog into their gaping, toothless maw.

And then there's the crazy ones, Lex.  I told you about the coroner chick with the jar of human teeth under her bathroom sink, and I've told you plenty about that insanely violent woman I am occasionally married to...And those are the better ones, man.  It only goes downhill from there.  And by "downhill" I mean "crazy fucking fun that makes you want to throw yourself into a chipper the next morning out of sheer self-revulsion".  So it's not ALL bad.

But enough about that.  Some things are simply too awful to contemplate, after all, and this is supposed to be a nice, friendly letter from the beautiful city of Tucson, where hardly anyone gets shot in the back and tossed in a dumpster, or ODs, or gets mobbed in broad daylight by desperate homeless people who may, for all I know, eat their victims.

No, this is as close to paradise as you get, Lex, and you and the wife should consider spending part of your winters here.  Winter is the good season...The temperature stays at around 55F, and the air isn't too full of wind-born dried-to-powder coyote poop, and the hoboes all stay in the legal district, restricting themselves to shanking people on jury duty who wander too far from the courthouse at lunchtime.

Yep, you can escape your ice-bound city for a week or three, and come visit some of our quaint tourist attractions.  Tombstone, for example, which has been rebuilt to commemorate the horrible violence of 1881, to give you a break from the horrible violence of 2010.

Ho ho!  Just kidding.  Crime is down 43%, they say...Though it seems they are only counting metro Tucson anymore, which is - you guessed it - 57% of the greater population.  Anything to keep from scaring the snowbirds away, I guess.

Well, shit.  There I go again.  Perhaps a career in public relations isn't in my immediate future.  It's just as well, really.  I can't picture myself being that particular kind of whore...Though I am not above selling maps to the Lost Dutchman Mine to gullible North Dakota retards, just for cheap kicks.  I figure I'm doing North Dakota a favor, when I send people off into the desert on a "short walk, maybe 2 hours".

You have to take your fun where you can, Lex, nobody's going take it for you. 

On the plus side, there's our entertainment.  You really have to come up here, just for that.  While you are stuck with talented bands and singers that can hold a tune, we are blessed with Kenny Loggins tribute bands (I shit you not.) and endless renditions of Free Bird.  You also have the option of hitting the University District and listening to the latest screamo band try out their newest lyrics.  Unfortunately, you aren't allowed to hit them.

As I write this, incidentally, Mike the engineer is talking at me about something.  He seems oblivious to the fact that I'm completely ignoring him.  His breath washes over me like garlic hellfire, and I am perilously close to about 10 violent felonies.  I imagine he thinks I am editing a procedure, or doing something else productive.  I'm not, and I am having more and more difficulty tolerating his braying laughter as he laughs at his own stale humor.  I have a 2 pound blacksmith's mallet in my desk drawer (Which is left over from when filthy assistant shared my office, and would put Limbaugh on the radio.), and it sings to me. 

Ah, there, he's finally left, blissfully unaware of his near-death experience, having successfully ruined my previous good mood.  Why do they plague me so, Lex?  I have made it abundantly clear that I don't like them, am not interested in what they have to say, and would rather see them dropped off in the middle of the Santa Ritas, to help support the local wildlife.  Yet they continue to "drop in for a chat", ignoring my body language and subtle hints ("Get the fuck out of my office, you fat bastard.").  It's inexplicable.

Perhaps I am simply not expressing myself clearly.  Perhaps I should purchase a taser, or maybe just one of those cattle prods, so beloved of the Chicago police in the not-so-distant pass.  Give the bastards a taste of high voltage, and see how fast they can run.

I swear, Lex, this place is beginning to have an effect on my sweet and optimistic personality.  But what can you do?

It's Tucson.  Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Michelle,

I hope this finds you and yours well, especially given the rough year you've had.  I've already hollered at you enough about getting out of that hellhole, so I won't belabor the point.

So, JW wants to join the military and blow shit up, eh?  Well, 5 years ago, I'd counsel against it, but times have changed, and I'd advise that he do just that.  After all, his odds of being wounded or killed aren't much worse than they are in St Louis, and at least he'll have an M4 to shoot back with.

He'll also have more fun...I did 10 years in the infantry (army), and I had a great time.  Sure, you spend some time deployed to God-awful shithole countries, and yeah, you spend a lot of time being eaten by mosquitoes on field problems, but it's a hell of a Saturday night, and while you have new worries that civilians don't have, you at least have 3 hots and a cot no matter what.

If it's explosions and adventure he's after, I'd suggest the army (The Marines have no fun at all, and usually spend 6 months at a time cooped up in a ship somewhere.), specifically in the infantry or cavalry.  The infantry gets to blow shit up more, but the cavalry doesn't walk as far, and the importance of that can't really be conveyed without experiencing it.  A 30 mile forced march followed by a 20 mile infiltration in 3 days will eat you alive.

The important thing for him to remember is that basic training IS as bad as it looks...Worse, truth be told, and there's no getting around it.  The secret is to get past the first 4 weeks, when it's mostly boredom, homesickness, and chickenshit...After that, he'll get to play with the toys, and it gets way more enjoyable after that...And the thing to remember is that basic WILL end, and the real army is nothing like basic at all.  It's more fun, and it also has the added advantage of having the world treat an 18 year old like a man, instead of a teenager.

I'll write more about that later, and I'll be happy to answer any questions that you or he may have...But I will state, unreservedly, that he's safer in the military than in St Louis, and he'd definitely be better off, employment-wise.  Plus, if he plays his cards right, he'll get some schooling when he has had enough of toting a rucksack for a living...Unless he becomes a lifer, which isn't really a bad option.  I was one myself, until a knee injury did me in.  Training accidents happen, just like accidents happen anywhere else.  Well, hell, I could have been hit by a bus at home, right?

Most importantly, it's a way out of the ghetto.  And, given the crucible he is living in now, plus the hardening and polishing he'll get in the army, he'll have a much better chance at getting by in the coming weird times.  Trust me on this, I'm a Doktor.

Okay for now,
Dok
   

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Mister the Coast Hustle,

Having now completely explored the Southwest, I am now relying on the Northeast to display any form of Americanism (as envisioned by the founders) whatsoever.  They're worthless and weak here, ECH, despite any reputation they may have for "rugged individualism", as a recently failed politician would put it.

Yes, they are weak, and utterly useless.  The entire area you may think of as "cowboy country" is one huge collection of fat middle aged women and emo-tards.  They hate me like poison, sir, and I am glad of it.  If they didn't hate me, I'd re-evaluate the way I live my life.  They are wrong, in a way that is very hard to properly explain.  They know I know this, and it renders the men impotent with hatred and makes the women desperate to mate with me, which is such a repulsive concept (you have no idea how ugly they are here) that I have to bludgeon myself to sleep with benzos every night.

You really can't picture it, ECH, not that you'd want to...Vast mounds of blubber shuffling slowly down the road in the summer heat, leaving a trail of sweat deep enough to flood your car's engine...The stench in WalMart is bad enough to make Genghis Khan puke up his fermented mare's milk, and those that aren't fat have that horrible meth face and emaciated frame that in other regions are only seen at raves.

You can't even slap them, because they just take it.  Just last month, I heaved a dead javelina into my neighbor's yard, and he smiled the next time he saw me, and asked me if he had done anything to offend me.  Can you believe that shit?

Oh, they're plenty brave in numbers, of course.  They've banded together quite nicely to let Juan the gardener know precisely what they think of him (While at the same time hiring him to do the yard, because he's cheap.), and they're courageous as hell at a town hall meeting, where they foolishly assume they won't be punished in the parking lot, later on.  Fuck with my kids' biology classes, will they?  Fucking Calvinists.

They are sickly and worthless, ECH, but there are simply too many of them.  I can't properly punish them all by myself.  I am completely swamped in geeks and losers and fat disgusting Goddamn religious freaks.  I'd invite you down to bag a few, but you'd have to be a fool to give up that shipboard job, and a fool you are not.

You have no idea what a service I provide for you Eastern types, keeping these freaks up here at high altitude, where their abused cardio-vascular systems don't allow them to do much more than slowly roll down the aisle in their mobility scooters.  If they were ever allowed to roll down hill where there's more oxygen, you'd be up to your bottom lip in a wash of human filth that would make you long for the zombiepocalypse, if you aren't already, with the stench burning out your nose hair and the very sight rendering you too physically ill to do anything other than beg for death from a disinterested God.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Mr. Language,

I would like to offer my congratulations on your nomination to the Milton Supman Society.  Though I am sure your sponsor, Ms. Kalera Stratton, has told you of the nature of our work, I will take a moment to explain things, to avoid any misunderstandings.

Named after the famous prophet of doom, Milton Supman, the Society is a multi-disciplinary group dedicated to documenting and studying the horror (as opposed to the events) of the 21st Century, to include the imminent pseudo-apocalypse, of which I am sure you are aware.

We find your language skills to be of particular interest, as we have no "in house" Spanish speakers of any fluency, or at least none that we trust not to "improve" documents assigned for translation.  On line translation software is also of little use to us, as the wildly varying accuracy of said software is well known to all.  It is disappointing in the extreme to think you've found new information on Tucson's Cult of the Black Madonna, only to find that the text you are "translating" is actually an advertizing circular for a penis-enhancement product.

In addition, while we rarely ever have need to "fight or flee", Ms. Stratton has informed us of your prowess with firearms and bladed weapons, and your utter fearlessness in the face of certain grisly death.  While we do not anticipate too many occasions where this will come in handy, it certainly counts in your favor.

One concern we do have, though, is Ms. Stratton's report of your occasional "outbursts".  While we find the public beating of hipsters to be a commendable act, I am sure you will agree that there is a time and place for everything, and will not indulge in this  hobby while on Society business (should you become affiliated with us). 

Likewise, while we are all modern people with modern sensibilities, we would also expect that your apparent habit of chewing on peyote and doing the "Barbie Dance" naked in public will also be restrained to times in which you are not functioning as an agent of the society.

That being said, while our society neither collects dues nor issues pay, we do expect that you will enjoy the company of your fellow scholars, most especially as this company is usually at a great distance, thus sparing you from the odious personal habits and might I say "passing acquaintance with personal hygiene" so prevalent among researchers of this nature.

Also, should the worst happen, your name will be immortalized on the side of the home office and - should any remains be recovered from the abandoned subways, moldy tombs, etc, in which you may meet your end - these will be cleaned up and kept as relics, typically maintained by Doktor Vitriol, in our Scotland offices.

I shall leave Ms. Stratton to explain some of our more prominent recent discoveries, such as the martyrdom of Richard Nixon, the actual date of Jimmy Carter's death (and what is masquerading as him now), and the awful truth about the American Revolution, among other fascinating subjects.  Instead, I shall focus on what Ms. Stratton has told us is your primary interest:  The coming pseudo-apocalypse.

While the implications of the "information bomb", as we call it (others call it "escalating future shock", or - in the case of certain ridiculous hippies, "the singularity") are becoming apparent, what is not as apparent to the casual observer is the impact it is having on the species as a whole.

For example, certain recent events seem to come straight out of pulp action novels of the 1930s, such as the recent (July 2nd, 2010) discovery and capture of a secret jungle submarine manufacturing facility in Ecuador (ABC News did an excellent story on the actual facts of this case, if not the sheer absurdity of it, as did many other news agencies).

Likewise, the figures on people who have to filter the ever-increasing amount of information (via drugs, illegal or prescription, alcohol, weird religion, nativist movements  such as the Tea Party, etc) have become nothing short of alarming.  It seems that 80% of the adult population of America alone actively take steps to make themselves dumber for the purpose of sheltering themselves from the horrible blizzard of information that is dumped on them daily. 

They do this at the same time they drive themselves into debt by obtaining even more  methods of gathering information...Cell phones, Blackberries, I-Pads, global modems, plasma TVs, satellite radio, etc.  The reason for this seems to be that information dissemination breeds information dissemination.  Once a person obtains something as prosaic as a television set, they are bombarded with advertisements for further information tools (and the drugs to dull the input with, not coincidentally), advertisements using Leary's 8 circuit model, which seems to be nigh-irresistible, especially to people who operate on the lower end of the model.

We know the how, the when, and the where, so to speak, but we only have suspicions as to the who and most importantly the why.  More data is required, as we are of course approaching this as a group of trained researchers, rather than as a gathering of conspiracy theorists.  Since a great deal of information is conveyed in Spanish, this is where you come in.  Spanish speakers are commonplace, of course, but few people can avoid personal bias or "horror fatigue", which is why we were delighted to receive your nomination from Ms. Stratton.

In any case, we look forward to your inclusion in our society once, of course, the proper vetting has been done. 

Sincerely,
Doktor Hamish Howl

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Nast,

I spent a little time looking at the Wikipedia entry and pictures for Santa Barbara, and it occurs to me that I hate you people.  It's all pretty and shit, and you have that big ocean right there, keeping the weather somewhat cool...And here I am, stuck in the middle of the world's biggest goddamn beach. 

For real.  This place is one of God's meaner jokes.  It had to be a real laugh for the people heading to California in the 1800s.  You get across Arizona, and you figure you can just cross that river, and you're out of the Sonoran Desert...and HAH!  Now you're in the Mojave, and it's WORSE.  Indeed...the desert is blanketed with the bones of people who foolishly listened to those horrible bastards in St Louis.

So, yeah, I hope you appreciate "the American Riviera".  You even have a cool history...In 1812, an Earthquake caused a tsunami that carried a Spanish ship a half a mile up Refugio Canyon.   Our history is far more sordid, and when we dig it up, we usually look around, and very quietly put the dirt back over whatever the hell it is that we found.

Well, except for our version of the "Cherohonkey" tribe...Defined as 55-65 year old hippies in tie dye shirts, shorts, and sandals, with their ridiculous pony tails, who spend all their time out in the desert digging up Indian burials to "get in touch with their heritage" (They have no actual Indian blood, of course.), which in turn is defined as "Making jewelry out of bits of dead Indians and selling it under the table at the annual international gem show", which is for some unfathomable reason held here.

How's that for a little horrormirth?  Oh, yeah...People are walking around wearing people, or at least their finger bones, etc.  This would be all right if they were taken in battle, of course, but instead it's just some horrible ghouls in retro-60s clothing.  Like Pickman from HP Lovecraft's work, only with less class.

Nothing, it seems, is too low for Tucson.  It's pretty sad when you hang out with perverts in Central Filth, and the Dirty Boys on Grant Road, so that you are at least surrounded by a better class of loser.  I've come to cherish the little time I get to spend at the Meatrack and the Venture Inn, because - even though they're horrible fucking dives and I don't even drink - at least the crowd there looks like real people and has facial expressions like real people, and at least they don't have human bits dangling from their necks.

In other news, I had to shoot a rattlesnake this morning, out by the welding shed.  Goddamn, I hate this town.  I fucking hate it. 

And I love it, and I will never, ever leave it.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Princess Suu,

Thank you for helping make my visit to Providence an interesting and fun occasion (Well, the punch to the nuts in that Irish pub wasn't fun, but it was most definitely interesting).  Say hello to the lovely Deirdre for me, and ensure that neither of you take any guff from the whey-faced bastards that continually stiff you at that basement juke-joint you work in.

Things are about normal here, with the exception that the monsoon hasn't come this year, which means that by the time you come down for the comicon, the whole state will have burned down.  That won't stop us, of course...We'll simply set up umbrellas and sell the comics open-air.  The cosplay freaks will shuffle around groaning, as the 3rd degree burns rub up against their singed outfits.  The 300 pound hairy guys in the Sailor Moon getups will look worse than normal, I'm betting.

Do drag Richter along, if you can.  He needs to see this unholy wasteland with his own eyes...And you both need to partake of this fish and chips joint I found in South Filth.  It's typically Tucson...No bathroom, and the food is good, cheap, and horribly, horribly bad for you.  It's not Iggy's, but it will have to do.

Also, please try to reserve one weekend night for a trip to the Meat Rack.  You can't properly understand Tucson without seeing that awful place.  Just don't let the owner start talking to you...The fat old bastard will talk your ear off about what a stud he is.  He fired the punk rock dude that wore a cured javelina head as a hat, which made many people sad, and means that we have to put up with the old freak...But it's still worth seeing.  Also, there may be a gallery opening that weekend, and I think we owe it to ourselves to ensure that it goes horribly, horribly wrong.

If there's time, we'll take you out shooting, too.  That would about wrap up the Tucson experience...Pretentious artists, perverts, booze, and guns.  There's a road of bones out there, and we shall march on it.  Freeky's parents are off the menu, though, as she's moving in with Swamp Jesus in two weeks.  I'm going to front her rent money until she gets her child support going...Should be about 2 months.

Incidentally, I'm fairly certain we have a bunk arranged with you at a friend's house, so you shouldn't have to worry about a hotel bill.  I also have an extra vehicle you can use, or I can just squire you around, your choice.  The extra vehicle has no AC, but it will be November, so not TOO bad...And the Jeep, of course, will have me driving...But I haven't killed anyone in it yet.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Professor Faust,

I think we can all agree that the English need to be properly chastised.  We've all had enough of them running around with their inbred overbites and their completely incomprehensible mangling of the very language they invented...And now the bastards have gone and  fucked up Dr Who.  It's gone on bloody long enough, and something has to be done.

So you Irish spags need to do your part:  Stop sending them good beer.  Let them drink that awful warm swill they make, you know, shit like Watneys that's all full of pond life and bits of effluent that could only have been dredged out of the Thames. 

For our part, we're going to send them all of our sitcoms from the 1980s.  Let the fuckers choke on that, the cunts.    With any luck at all, we can convince the Canadians to start sending them that jackal piss they call "Red Rose Tea", and Australia can pitch in by sending all their racists to Kent (Critical mass should be achieved, I think).

If we all pitch in together, we can have them scurrying for their old bomb shelters in "the tube" faster than a game of pass-the-parcel in a Belfast pub.

And what's up with that shit, by the way?  You Irish have been all quiet and peaceful, and we are now resorting to betting on Palestinians vs. Israelis, which isn't half as much fun.  They're too predictable, and it's getting harder and harder to find suckers to bilk.  If this keeps up, we'll have to resort to gambling on the fucking Basques, and we all know how silly THEY are...More incompetent than the old Italian Red Brigade, which was goofier than a waltzing mouse.

(Dear Irish Postal Inspector:  While we of course don't advocate terrorism, surely there's no law against betting on it, right?  If there is, have this Professor Faust character picked up immediately.  He's a suspicious sort, and has shifty eyes.  He's up to no good, and probably has designs on your Guinness brewery.)

One other thing, Professor...Don't think we've forgiven you for that collection of drunken sots you bastards call "poets".  William Butler Yeats and James Joyce together couldn't write anything worthy of gracing a bathroom stall, and we'll thank you for not foisting off any more of that sort of drivel on an unsuspecting world.  What the hell are you feeding these people?  Not even a steady diet of whiskey and moldy potatoes can explain that gibberish.

Knock it the fuck off.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Remington,

I am writing this from the beautiful seaside city of Providence.  Providence, apparently, is the spawning ground of the American hipster.  We spent the first evening in town in a hipster bar with early Abba décor, being tormented by young ladies with ukuleles (I shit you not), skimpy dresses, and not an iota of anything remotely resembling talent.  Imagine being stuck in a coffeehouse full of retarded beatniks, and you will gain an accurate view of what my jet-lagged and caffeine-poisoned brain was subjected to.

This is H.P. Lovecraft's city, Remington, and they are in dire need of modern science to banish the horrible effects of their incessant breeding with the Old Ones.  Though I have not seen any webbed fingers, I have not seen anyone's toes, and I'm fairly certain I don't want to.

Interesting note:  They have hooka bars here, of course, yet it is not legal to smoke a cigarette in one, as it may pose a health hazard to the people exhaling huge clouds of tobacco smoke from their cancerous throats.  This is as perfect an illustration as I can think of to describe America in the early 21st century.

Americans have become an ugly breed, Remington...Warren Ellis refers to them as "the new scum", and he's 100% correct.  Thin necks, fat asses, and low foreheads are the defining characteristics of this generation and the one immediately preceding it, as can be judged by, for example, our offshore drilling technology...And by the fact that the "Rottenberg Center" is still allowed to exist.

This all sort of makes me wish for the retribution of an angry God, the God of the old testament, when deities knew how to drop the smackdown on uppity primates.  For example, as I speak, Richter's roommate and his girlfriend are playing on the Wii in the same room I am trying to sleep in, with the volume all the way up.  There may be a stabbing shortly.  That Wii music is the last thing psychos hear before they pull the starter cord on the chainsaw.

How long, Oh, Lord, how long?  Not even the Book of Revelations promised a vengeful tide of yahoos, who move their bulk like lightning but speak only gibberish.  They pray to their teabagging Gods, and like groundhogs, they occasionally stir from their holes to look around...But they DO see shadows, Remington, huge fucking shadows that do not belong to them...So they scurry back down their holes and turn on their TVs and their video game consoles and their Goddamn TIVO, and try not to be noticed by the very same people they take to the streets in support of.

And there's no Goddamn parking.

But what of it?  We are, after all, Discordians, and this is exactly the sort of shit we thrive on.  Hundreds of millions of demented primates, sir, and they all live just South of you.  Ho ho!  Yes, indeed.  It's like living right next to the Mongol horde...This particular breed may be fat and stupid, but ye Gods, there's a lot of them.  Never forget that they outnumber you ten to one, and eye your precious permafrost with lust-filled eyes and hate-filled hearts.  Should they ever discover that your nation is apparently floating on oil, you're well and truly fucked.
So there's really nothing to be done but a pre-emptive attack.  However, may I suggest that you NOT follow the examples of your forefathers in 1812, by burning the White House.  Cutting off the head of a snake may kill the body, but cutting off the head of a retard only makes him more vicious.  You got away with it 200 years ago, but today you'd be dealing with 301,000,000 screaming yahoos, and you'd only have yourselves to blame.

Instead, I suggest you invade Wyoming.  Nobody would really notice, and those who would wouldn't care.  Most Americans think Wyoming is a country in Europe, after all, and from that advance base you could spread into the Dakotas.  Nobody would catch on until you seized the potato mines of Iowa, and by then, of course, it would be far too late.  Your cannibal Inuit hordes would be stomping rednecks flat in Georgia before it even hit CNN.

Oh, one other thing:  Don't bother invading Texas.  Trust me on this one...They've been nothing but trouble, and should you conquer them, they will just start pissing and moaning for you to redact all the biology out of your textbooks, to replace it with the book of Leviticus.  They've already taken Thomas Jefferson out of their history books and replaced him with John Calvin and Joseph McCarthy, so just imagine what they'd scrawl in your largely empty history books.

No, my suggestion is that you just saw them off and dump them into the gulf.  I mean, it's not like the gulf can get any MORE polluted, right?  This has the added advantage of treating 90% of the Bush clan to their very own Atlantis-esque trip down to see just exactly what went wrong with the Deepwater Horizon.  Perhaps they can jam Laura Bush into the pipe while they're down there...The "top kill" didn't work, but a "fat kill" might.

Now, all of this may sound horribly violent to your Canadian sensibilities, but it's kill or be killed, Remington.  It's only a matter of time before these fat bastards realize that Canada isn't actually a national park, and then they'll be all over you, hooting and humping on your leg and throwing Pepsi cans around until they have terraformed Canada into upstate New York.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  You need to mobilize your army NOW, and send all 12 of them into Wyoming posthaste, before it's too late.

Should, however, you disregard this advice and find yourself invaded by fat behemoths from the South, you will have to take steps to save yourself and your sister.  One, smash raisins onto 20% of your teeth, to hide the fact that you have all of them.  Second, NASCAR shirts.  Third, "fat suits".  Fourth, get a couple of those "Rascal Mobility Scooters" and ride them around.  This will keep you safe, provided you keep that girl away from reporters or anyone else that might bring out her insane urge to photobomb.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Reverend Payne,

We've had it up to here with you Scots, sir, what with you keeping the real haggis to yourself (The canned stuff doesn't make the nut.), foisting that abomination you call "golf" off on gullible American idiots, and running around with your knees bent, doing cheesy imitations of poor Prince Charles.

I understand that you have a beef with the English.  I mean, who doesn't?  They dumped their puritans off on us, and then "lost" the revolution, after all, dooming the former colonies to 224 years of religious whackjobbery, and what they did to those poor Germans in 1914 was a crying shame.

Also, enough with the tragic heroes already.  If I have to watch one more film about Rob Roy or William Wallace (And what's with all the alliteration in your fucking names, anyway?), we will have no choice but to pirate your television with old Ronald Reagan movies.  Not bluffing.  It's really simple:  Stop fighting the English, and start exporting your junkies to them. 

It's a perfect plan.  You rid yourself of screaming zombies in Edinburg, and England spends a generation recoiling in horror.  That'll teach those miserable crumpet-suckers a thing or two, let me tell you.

Next item:  Tell that thug in Southampton to stop fucking with the weather patterns I had established until she learns to control the damn thing.  It's already mid-July, and we haven't had our monsoon.  If we don't get some rain within a fortnight, the entire state will burn down, with the exception of Phoenix (Concrete doesn't burn.).

I can also tell you that the Right Coast Spags didn't appreciate her little joke last month.  They say that their revenge will be a thing of legend, and will be talked about in shitty South End pubs for as long as they discussed Springheel Jack.

However, I would like to comment that the world needs more claymores and kilts.  Lots more.  And woad.  Goddamn, that stuff is cool.  If I had my way, it would be the only "clothing" allowed in Arizona.  Wait.  Scratch that...What the hell was I thinking?  Who the hell wants to see some 400 pound WalMart monstrosity wallowing around wearing nothing but woad?  The mind boggles in terror.

Lastly, I expect that you will be participating in the pseudo-apocalypse, which will be forthcoming on the board sometime in late July.  It's not a world-ender, but everything's going to get dumber, and I can prove it.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Risus,

We in Arizona have a bone to pick with you South Carolina fuckers.  When Sarah Palin quit, WE were next in line for The Most Retarded Governor title, and then you spags come down the pike with that Sanford dingbat.  This is BULLSHIT.  We patiently waited our turn, and then you Goddamn secessionist bastards come along and jump the line.

Well, you can just wait your fucking turn, you Myrtle Beach jackasses.  We've been grooming Jan Brewer for the spot for years, and when she finally comes out with her big reveal, Mark Sanford trumps her Jim Crow Law bit with his "disappearing governor" act.  It made her cry.  I hope you bastards are happy.

And just what IS it with these "Godly" Southern republicans, anyway?  They have to act so Goddamned repressed that their gonads back up until they have "swimmers" in their eyes, and they go utterly berserk.  Jimmy Swaggart comes to mind, as does that weird fucker Jim Bakker (Yes, Oklahoma counts as the South.  We don't want them in our West, thank you very much.).

You really need to set up some sort of covert cat house, where the staff can be paid to, you know, keep their fucking mouths shut, and get these silly bastards' ashes hauled before they go critical mass and blow up all over your end of the country.  It's messy and embarrassing, and it's bad for the crops.

Well, it's really too late for you jackasses to relinquish the title now, I suppose, so we'll just have to bring out the big guns and elect Sheriff Joe Arpieo to the governor's office.  He IS going to run, and he IS going to win, because we are just exactly that stupid, and who knows?  He might even live long enough to run for president. 

Are you ready for that?  Are you ready for the king-hell hair shirt punishment freak to sit in the oval office?  Are you ready for federal tent city prisons and weird fucking Jim Crow bullshit?  Are you prepared for every police department in the nation having more armored vehicles than a mechanized infantry company (Sheriff Joe's Maricopa County Sheriff's Department has 16 armored vehicles, a mechanized infantry company has 15).

Ho Ho!  You soft Eastern types are all fucked now!  You'll all be selling each other out to the guards for cigarettes within a year, and working double shifts at the glory hole to keep the guards calm enough to prevent them from wearing their tasers out on the back of your necks.

That'll teach you, you bastards.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Robyn and Liam,

I hope this letter finds you all well, and before your seasonal rolling blackouts make it impossible to read.  How you folks get along in California is beyond me.

I've been doing quite a bit of thinking about this radio thing of Liam's, and I have some good ideas for canned rants.  I'm thinking 10 minute spots in which I can let my bare face hang out, and say all the truly horrible shit that needs saying in this dark year of our Lord, 2010. 

After all, it's not like there's a shortage of horror to talk about (half of which is horrormirth, the other half not so much).  I'm debating between politics my way, or focusing instead on the root cause of our problems, which are entirely societal/cultural.  I'm tending toward the cultural thing because, let's face it, if we didn't like the current political scene in America™, we wouldn't pay for it.

Let me know your thoughts on the matter, and some kind of timeline, and I'll start spouting into the microphone.  I can either email the mp3 file, or post it at a downloadable site, as you guys see fit.

Next, I'm glad to hear Carly liked her letter, and it didn't offend her gigolo boyfriend.  I'm not here to criticize them, after all...I am, after all, a Doktor, and I can view these sorts of things in a professional, non-judgmental light, though you'd think he'd give up being a gigolo, now that he has a steady girlfriend.

Kids, these days, eh? 

Anyway, I plan on making a trip up to see you guys next winter...I'd come sooner, but I have to burn the last of my vacation time to straighten out this litigation with Kim and Marcus.  I'm not particularly happy about this, and Maria is reacting in the way you'd expect.  Horrible things are coming down the tracks, I'm afraid, and Marcus and Kim are too dense to see the train coming.  Ho ho!

Speaking of Maria, I seem to be married again.  The 90 days are up, and she's back...Or more accurately, she's still where she's at, and I'm staying there 3-4 days a week.  The balance of my time is spent in Oro Valley with my kids (the schools down by Maria's are a travesty), so that my mother doesn't drive them completely batshit.  She's not an evil woman, just a control freak and more than a bit of a mental case.

This is the last time I'm going back, though.  If Maria flips out again, it's over for good.  I have no further need to be a yo-yo.  Or so I say now...My vow to not sleep with women that hate me has limited my options, at least in this city, where my choices are limited to 400 pound behemoths (28 stone, Liam, no shit), meth addicts, bar flies, and women that want me dead (but will still sleep with me).  Horrible, horrible.

I'm also coming to terms with the fact that my children aren't really children, anymore.  My son will be getting his driver's license next week, and my daughter has had her first brush with the law...Brawling in public.  That's daddy's little girl.  This is both liberating and distressing.  On one side, they're fantastically independent kids (More than that...My daughter runs the entire household now, finance-wise.), but on the other side, I could fucking swear that just 10 minutes ago, they were wearing footie pajamas and watching those awful Barney videos.

The good news is, I seem to have raised them right (their mother, of course, had a large hand in this as well).  They are thoroughly disgusted by the horrible Jim Crow laws that our state has enacted, and are equally horrified by the concept of Sheriff Joe Arpieo running for governor (Make no mistake...He WILL run, and he WILL win.  This is, after all, Arizona.).

This is yet another steaming pile of shit that we have managed to generate for the generation after us.  I'm fairly certain our children will beat us when we're old.  Hell, I would.

But what of it?  I fucking hate the future, so I'm not feeling terribly guilty about it.  Seems that physicists have discovered that backward time travel is actually theoretically possible (Difficult, though.  You need to have two black holes handy, with their event horizons overlapping.), so it's just a matter of engineering.  And has the future come back to say "HI!" to great-great-great-great grandpa Roger?  Hell no.  Ungrateful bastards.  I'll leave them a burned up cinder, see if I don't, the cunts (Fuck.  Now I'm talking like Liam).  I may be borrowing the planet from my descendants, but there's no collateral.

My daughter has pointed out that maybe they don't come back because of my proactive revenge, but I know that she is wrong.  If that were the case, one day 135,000 of my descendants would appear on the side of Mount Lemmon, and moon me.  This hasn't happened, so it's simply a matter of the little bastards not taking the time to visit their honorable ancestor (to wit: me).

Well, that's the news from Tucson, Holy City of Eris, for now.  If you have time to write back, please do, especially with regard to the status of the radio thing.  I promise to respond in a timely fashion, unless Tucson eats me or I get stabbed and tossed in a dumpster (We have very tidy tweakers, here), in which case it may take me a bit longer.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Stella,

Sorry I couldn't help with that cat.  There is a glut on the market, it seems, and not even the taquerias are accepting them.  There are many fat coyotes in this town and still there are too many cats.  My last remaining neighbor, for example, is one of those crazy cat ladies that couldn't bring herself to spay the poor darlings, and she went from two normal cats to 47 inbred monsters, and a bulldog which was driven crazy by the hordes of semi-feral felines.  The City finally took action, and she now she has one spayed cat and an insane dog.

But I tolerated her animals, just as I tolerate the fact that her swimming pool is a delightful shade of green-black, because she is in fact my last remaining neighbor.  Everyone else slipped out in the dead of night when their mortgages went upside down, and they suddenly had to make HUGE balloon payments on their $300,000 homes and Mustangs and Hummers.  They were dumb, and I don't miss them...I mean, how much meaningful conversation can you have with people who can't read a mortgage contract?

And it's not just here.  Our generation put their collective foot in it, when they bought the Reagan/Clinton rubbish that the gravy train never ends, tomorrow never comes, and credit is basically free money.  They are the New Scum, and they deserve the horrible beating they are taking...However, I make exception for people who simply got laid off and couldn't afford the mortgage.  That isn't their fault, it's the fault of greedy bankers and stupid latter day yuppies.

So now I basically have the neighborhood to myself.  It's like Left Behind, and I couldn't be happier.  All the Calvinists have shoved off to wherever they go when they realize that God wasn't going to pay their bills simply because they're "the elect".  Sure, I have to spend a day once a month throwing a half pint of kerosene in their pools, to keep the place from turning into a mosquito farm, but isn't that a small price to pay?

I wonder how the Calvinists are dealing with that, anyway?  I mean, a basic tenet of their religion is that you're born saved or damned, and you can tell the sheep from the goats, because God likes the elect, and he gives them nice things (and the rich go to heaven, and the poor go to hell, because they were born wrong).  Now they're all penniless, and it strikes me as more than a little funny, that they may have to face the hideous possibility that maybe they aren't the elect, after all.

Ho Ho!  Wouldn't THAT fuck your head up?  You spend all your life believing that you're better because you're better off, then suddenly *plop*, you're down with the rest of the po' buckers, wondering why your God abandoned you.  It's almost enough to make me believe in providence.

Okay for now,
Dok