Fucked Up Mailing List 2011: Round 2

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Okay, this year I'm going to post the letters as an on-going thing...As soon as I've heard from any given recipient that they have read their letter, I will post it here.  This saves on letters getting lost, duplicates, etc.

I don't mind if people post in this thread, but if a significant conversation develops, I will split it out.

Also, I will eventually get everyone on the list, starting with people who bought an MSY this year, followed by people who responded to my last mailing, followed by people who didn't.  The people inside each catagory will be dealt with in a random order.

Okay, here goes.

So far:

Mailed:
Phox (received)
CPD (received & replied)
Nigel (received & replied)
LMNO (received & replied)
Iason (recieved)
Squiddy (received & replied)
Charley Brown (received & Replied)
Twiddington (received & replied)
Cainad (received)
James SemaJ  --->?
BDS (received)
Jenne (received)
Cramulus (received)
Khara (received)
Alty (received)
Eve (received)
Hovercat (received)

In the mail tomorrow morning:
Suu
EoC

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Phox,

I hope this letter finds you well in that horrible little one-horse town you call home. 

I say I hope, but I fear the worst.  When I lived in Illinois, Zeigler was second only to Morris in hushed tales of degeneracy and depravity.  To hear folks tell it, you all have webbed fingers & toes, and no trucks stop there.  No, truck drivers have heard too many tales of gnawed bones & strange rites.  Rumor has it that the post office uses robots to deliver the mail, because they can't recruit postman as fast as they are eaten.  Horrible, horrible.

My advice to you is to haul up stakes and run.  Head for civilization, preferably in a state in which they have not heard of your peoples' excesses (Which leaves out most of the Midwest.).  Don't tell anyone that you're going, of course, as the whole situation will turn into something out of a bad Scifi station horror movie, in which 30-somethings play 20 year-olds, and everything ends badly.

I would suggest Tucson, as we are a clean-living, upright people, but the altitude is too thin for you here, and your skin - being used to swamps & mire - would cook right off in minutes...Just another sad victim of the merciless sun that scours clean to the bone any mold or fungus infections that low-land swampers bring with them.

And that's really a shame, as we can use all the help we can get, here.  Bloated WalMart pigs run loose here, and run good men down like dogs, for no reason.  One minute, you're walking across the parking lot to the bookstore, then BAM!  You're flat as a pancake as the offending behemoth rides on, unnoticing and uncaring, on their Rascal scooter.  The best you can do is grab for their oxygen bottle, and maybe take the bastard with you.

Other than that, it's a wonderful city, where the meth-heads stack their victims neatly in dumpsters and the police cry in their whiskey for 6 hours after each shift...Where the pitiless sun dries the shit of coyotes (and people) into a fine powder in less than a day, and every time the wind blows, you breathe it.

Tucson, they say, is like the surface of Mercury...Hot as hell, a million miles from anywhere, and if you inhale, you die.

But we don't let that sort of nonsense stop us.  No.  Neither thin, poisonous air nor teabaggers on mobility scooters faze us.  We understand Doom, and we bray our laughter and our spittle in their blank, uncomprehending faces.  It is a century of Horror™, and we have enough Vaseline and shrink wrap for everybody.  Doom is no excuse to stop The Party™, and thus we stagger through The City, loaded on bourbon and odd plants that grow nowhere else.  We are rock n rollers, and we know nothing of despair.


In fact, we may be the last rock n rollers on this side of the Rocky Mountains.  California has forgotten the face of rock, and the Northwest is a horrible den of hipsters and neo-hippies.  They don't understand, you see, how things are managed downtown.  How things get done.  They used to know, decades ago, when Grace Slick sang at The Matrix, telling her acid-addled stories to kids who just wanted to get all fucked up and dance all night, no matter how ugly and sinister things got in the "real" world.

But those days are gone now, save for the occasional dinosaur still staggering around in tie-die and bellbottoms.  They are a sad breed, who mistook the style for the substance, thinking that if they freeze themselves in amber, and continue looking like Jerry Garcia, that they won't eventually die of old age. 

That just leaves us in Tucson...We can't be bothered with style, we can't be concerned with being cool.  There's no time for that.  There's work to be done, jamming down back alleys in a smashed up Jeep with a head full of bad wiring and a back seat full of angry, angry women with whiskey in their blood and mayhem on their minds, blasting The Rolling Stones Gimme Shelter and looking for a fight.

If you could choose a life, wouldn't that be it?  Getting your monkey on in strange & terrible ways, irresponsible firearm handling, and no thought of tomorrow?  We are the last frontier, and sitting in front of the tube eating Cheetohs ain't exactly a home on the range.  It's too hot for that shit, and we have a desperate desire for change.

Obviously, I don't mean The Smiler's idea of change.  You and I both know that for the cynical pandering it is.  No, the change we mean is that little tin gods may eventually come to understand that we won't be pushed, that we understand "I WILL KILL A MOTHERFUCKER" and "LOOK OUT, MISTER, DOK HAS A CHAINSAW". 

Vroom, vroom!  Look at 'em run!  It's party time in Tucson, so get your trip pants-wearing, pierced cranium arse off of MY street.  Move your asses, you drones and hipsters, emotards and scene kiddies, you useless hipsters and U of A trustafarians!  I have a full tank of gas in this thing, and you were warned about this shit...You were told that your useless whimpering killed James Brown, and that I would be back for a terrible revenge.  Now I've gone all Chainsaw Billy, and it's too late to say you're sorry.

If any of these people loved me, Doktor Phox, they'd all kill themselves today.

Okay for now,
Dok

[LMNO]

FUCK YEAH.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

FUCK YEAH.

My rule this year is 2 printed pages, minimum, 3 letters a week.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

FUCK YEAH.

My rule this year is 2 printed pages, minimum, 3 letters a week.

I admire your dedication in spreading your Holiness^TM around. You, sir, are a saint. Of what, I'm not sure. But a saint none-the-less.

[Jenne]

I, uh, have something PLANNED for my next letter to you, Oh Roger Dear. 

*innocent smile fooling no one*

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I'm kinda hoping you mail yourself.  Don't forget the air holes.

Nigel and LMNO came up in the randomizer today.

Letters go in the mail tomorrow morning.

[LMNO]

[Chairman Risus]

My address might change before you get to the end. If I show up, let me know and I'll tell you the correct address.

[Phox]

That makes me laugh every time. Awesome stuff, Roger, and true at that. 

[maphdet]

Ok-I want to take part this year, if possible.

PM coming soon with addie.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

So far:

Mailed early this week:
Phox (received)
CPD

Mailed this morning:
Nigel
LMNO

Going in the mail tomorrow:
Iason
Squiddy

[Cuddlefish]

Ah, fuck. I totally forgot to respond to my letter.

* Cuddleshift goes digging...

Found it! Planning response now... Better late than never, right?

[Suu]

I need to buy stamps. I should do that.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

  The boyfriend and the girlfriend are somewhat traumatized by the letter. I can't get them to read MSY 1. But I'll keep spreading the Holy^TM anyway.