The Fucked Up Mailing List 2010

[The Good Reverend Roger]

As many of you know, I decided to put the MSY1 address list to good use, by sending all of you incoherent or insulting letters, under the Dok Howl name.  I am publishing the outbound letters here, before starting the next letter writing campaign.  I haven't yet decided whether to scan all the responses I got, as I'm not sure I want to replace my scanner, but rest assured, those that wrote me back get priority on the next batch of awful sludge in their mailboxes.  Anyway, on with the letters, in no particular order (and with italics, etc, removed, because Bill Gates is a prick).

TGRR
May 15th, 2011

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Professor Cramulus,

Enclosed you will find a pith helmet, the last remaining trace of  our esteemed colleague, Professor Payne.  It is my sad duty to inform you that he was torn to pieces by cannibals in the wilds of Southampton...Where he was looking for ancient ruins that might indicate that there had been a civilization there at one point.

I feel that Professor Payne would have wanted you to have this, and to wear it in his memory, as you continue your own endeavors among the savages of New York.  The Helmet is of World War II vintage, and is said to be cursed.  We, of course, are men of learning, and believe in no such nonsense, despite the fate of poor Lord AKK, who wore it on his ill-fated expedition to Hackensack.  Rubbish, I say, poppycock!  It's a perfectly good helmet, simply hose it out and pass it on.

As to my current expedition, we are encountering many problems with the native porters, who absolutely refuse to wear loincloths and turbans.  They insist on "blue jeans" and "tee shirts", which doesn't make for a proper-looking expedition at all.  Also, when I was thrashing one of them with my walking stick (the tea was a bit off, which just isn't done, don't you know), the blackguard pulled a gun on me!  I was so shocked by this breach of Etiquette, my monocle fell off.  Of course, I had Colonel Freeky feed him to the dogs, as an example to the others. 

As a result of this and other discipline issues, we have had to hire new porters, a surly, toothless bunch who insist on being paid in "meth amphetamines" and "40s".  It is distasteful, but the expedition is so close to finding The Lost Truck Stop that any distaste I feel must be born in the finest traditions of our profession.  Pip pip, think of England, and all that!

The only real concern I have is Colonel Freeky.  It turns out that the Colonel is a female, if you can believe that!  I admit I had my suspicions, but had written off her...er...female attributes as a glandular disorder.  Why, she never once asked for smelling salts!  Obviously, I cannot be blamed for this sort of error. 

In addition, she seems to be prone to going native.  I observed her carving the word "Zalgo" into some of the locals, when she was supposedly leading a watering party.  I shall have to keep an eye on her.  A woman Colonel, indeed!  I shall write if she has any other sinister habits, perhaps you may have to send a relief expedition.  If you haven't heard from me by the fall rains, assume the worst and send an armed party.

Okay for now,
Doktor Howl

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Alty,

I hope this letter finds you well, and not eaten by one of those grizzly/polar bear hybrids we've heard so much about.  I can scarcely imagine the continual terror, as you all hide in your rickety mining shacks, waiting for the inevitable snuffling around the ramshackle door...The last sound before the dreadful roar and crashing noises that marks the passing of many people up in Palin country. 

The rest, of course, are run over by Todd on his goddamn skidoo. 

Now, the rest of us have heard rumors that Todd and some of his friends want to secede.  We're okay with that, as long as you guys leave the gold, uranium, and oil behind when you go.  You can keep the fucking caribou, they're more trouble than they're worth.

However, unlike the case of Texas, we have no plans to FORCE you to secede.  You really aren't bad people, despite your proximity to Canada.  Texas, on the other hand, we can do without.  They're an embarrassment, really, and aren't good for much other than cheap entertainment...Especially that waterhead governor they have, Perry.  He's a hoot, and should be run on a cable TV channel on continuous loop, maybe alongside Bobby Jindal. 

Florida and Louisiana can go too, come to think of it.  After all their bitching about "big government", let's just cut the two oil-soaked disasters loose, and see how they like the invisible hand when it's really in play, right? 

Ah, what's this nation coming to, Alty, when we have to consider actually evicting states from the union?  But what choice do we have?  I mean, I'm sure that they're actually nice people, who love their dogs and hardly ever drag black people behind their pickup trucks, but we really have to consider our property values.  I mean, would you want your daughter to marry a Texan? 

Here in Arizona, of course, we are in the process of splitting our state in half, with the Gadsden Purchase becoming the sovereign city state of Tucson.  It's a hassle, but we really don't want to be associated with the Jim Crow laws they keep passing up in Phoenix...And now that Sheriff Joe Arpieo is running for governor - and he will win - there'll be no end to the monstrous tide of cheap yahoos and pencil necked patriots all hooting and hollering up in the hills.

I tried to make this letter a little more upbeat, but I cannot.  The geeks have finally broken me...There are too many of them, and not enough of me.  But what of it?  I can just refer to this shithole as a "target-rich environment", and stop whining, eh?

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Devil Squirrel,

Long time, no see, kid...This is the artist formerly known as The Good Reverend Roger.  Your Aunt Robyn gave me your address to be added to the "psycho letters" mailing campaign.  First off, we miss you at the boards, and wish you'd drop in once in a while.

Second, I hear you have a boyfriend of some type.  Something about a "gigolo"? Well, I'm not here to judge you, and I kind of always suspected you'd turn out to be a pimp.  Why, way back when you were just a tyke on principiadiscordia.com, making daily threats on Bob Dole's life, I said to myself, "This girl is going to be a playa, with a fine head for business and keeping that pimp hand strong."

Your Aunt says he's a pleasant enough guy, and seems to treat you right...This is a good thing, as the alternative is having 200 Discordians land on him like a mighty wave of shit and filth and stompin' boots, all infected with syphilis worms the size of pythons, with spiky bits and an acidic ooze that eats through condoms and stomps your chromosomes flat.

We are a filthy bunch, after all, truly the dregs of the intertubes, and we are always in need of new victims on which to do that horrible thing we do (in short, we haven't changed a bit). 

In my case, I have relocated to the arse of the nation, Tucson, Arizona.  Life here is very nice, if by "nice" you mean "the city where they shot the Good Humor man for the $47 in his cashbox".  Who the fuck kills the ice cream man?  I mean, even tweakers were kids once, right?  We also had a guy who actually got shot while he was being shot (our drive-by gunmen are apparently all cross-eyed).

On the plus side, I can drive like a total asshole (my poor Jeep spends more time in the body shop than on the road), and brandish my various firearms at gangstas on their mobility scooters and old people in their Lexuses (Lexii?) while fucked out of my head on all the pills the doctor says I need to deal with the brain damage from a nasty brain virus I had earlier this year.  So at least I have that going for me.
Drugs are bad, kids.  Don't take 'em.  Give them to Doktor Howl.

After all, it's not like you youngsters know how to deal with drugs.  Look at Keith Richards...Now there's a stone drug freak of the old school.  Sure, he looks like he died 30 years ago (he may have, come to think of it), and sure he can't remember any of the songs he used to play with the Stones, but he sure knew how to party.  The horrible condition he is in is testimony to his party ethic (seriously, google pics on him...The truly evil thing about heroin is that it might NOT kill you...It might turn you into Keith Richards).

However, while I suggest you don't DO drugs, I also suggest that you DO invest in drug companies at the first available opportunity.  50% of Americans medicate (booze, illegal drugs, prescription drugs) to deal with the horrible waves of future shock that roll over the country with increasing frequency and severity.  When I was a kid, we had rotary phones.  Now I have 2 cell phones and I have to throw shit at my boss to keep him from issuing me a crackberry.

So, yeah, it's getting harder and harder to for people to deal with America without some form of filter, chemical or otherwise.  Why do you think religious whackjobs are one the rise again?

Oh, yes.  The future is here, but it's not the one you were promised.  There are no flying cars, no jetpacks, you won't have a robot lover or a vacation on the moon, but you'll probably have a cell phone grown into your skeleton and an I-Pad display on the inside of your left eyelid...Because since the CoN figured out that they can't stop us from communicating, they elected instead to drown us in communication.
What this means, of course, is that you'll never get a chance to be alone, ever.  Your boss will be able to call you or even track your location whenever he likes, and your family can call to nag whenever they please.  You will, of course, rush right out to be the first sucker on your block to get this edgy new tech.

This is what my generation and the one immediately before it have done to you.  You see, we know that we're only borrowing the planet from our children, but it seems there's no collateral, so we just burned it up and left you a smoking cinder.  Sorry about that (Hey, kids!  Google "American deficit", then find an old person to beat up!) .

This of course justifies your generation shoving us onto icebergs (If there's any left by then) or simply rolling our wheelchairs over the nearest staircase.  Hell, I would if I were you, just as soon as we're too feeble to resist your terrible revenge (so, like, next Tuesday).  I shudder to think what's going to happen when the 12-22 year old generation realizes exactly what we've done to them, and it occurs to me that we should have aborted the whole lot of you, in self defense.  Well, too late now.  I shall pack an extra colostomy bag and 3 cases of Ensure shakes when you shovel me onto an ice floe, which should keep me strong enough long enough to eat my fellow old-timers.  I figure that if you jam a dozen of us on each floe, I could survive for months...More, if I drift close enough to another floe, so that I may hop feebly from one to the other like the cannibal pirate I always wanted to be.  I shall make you proud.

Okay for now,
Doktor Howl (aka The Good Reverend Roger)

PS:  My daughter has informed me that "gigolos" listen to "Icey Pee" (where DO these rappers get their names?), wear clown makeup, bandanas,   and hoodies.  That's new.  They used to wear wide collar shirts and bell bottoms, and obnoxious gold chest medallions.  Horrible, horrible.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor 000,

It is my pleasant duty to inform you that pulp (the 30s-50s writing genre) is not dead, and in fact has crept into almost every aspect of our daily lives, though not precisely as written.  How this was not previously noticed is a bit of a mystery, but consider:

Dick Tracy's radio wrist watch has arrived in the form of a cell phone.  Why bother with a two way radio and a watch, when you can have a phone/PTT/internet connection with a time function?  In fact, most watches will disappear, it seems, from the market within 5 years (Rolex and other status watches will probably remain for a decade or so, until they go out of style in the same fashion that pocket watches did.)

That secret jungle submarine base in Ecuador.  While not exactly Dr No (The subs were for smuggling drugs, not "world domination muhaha".), the fact that this sort of thing happens is in itself proof that bad guys can be cool, too.  The very idea that they build a MAD/sonar-proof submarine out of composite materials, one that can go down 20 meters and stay there for a day, is probably the stomp-down coolest thing that's happened in 30 years.

Videophones are here, in the form of laptops, and now Blackberries.

One of the things my plant produces is feedstock for making transparent aluminum.

Yes, Doktor 000, the future is more closely described by pulp than by Popular Mechanics...Check out their old "kitchen of the future" articles.  Unlike pulp, they completely missed.  The microwave, for example, was never even guessed at, outside of science fiction.  Once they invent a replicator, however, we'll all die of terminal obesity.

One other thing worth mentioning is that they're reviving the pseudo-flying car.  Basically, it's a car that wings can be added to (Essentially a Cessna that can be driven around.).  They are now planning communities around this.  How cool is that?  People in this city can't drive as it is, so you can see why the idea of them dealing with three dimensions of traffic fills me with an unholy and misanthropic glee.

The future is here, my good man, and it's time to embrace it.  It is time to don our Doktor smocks and cheesy glasses, and boldly stride forth into the horrible mess of bad planning, half-baked ideas, and cartoon bad guys that is emerging.  In fact, we need to BE those cartoon bad guys because, while FARC came close, they're just plain doin' it wrong.  South Americans apparently lack the proper glands for this sort of thing.

I expect to see your plans for your secret laboratory/base posthaste.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Badbeast,

I have a confession to make...The "American Revolution" was all a mindfuck, a colossal joke that got out of hand.  Thomas Jefferson tried to send a letter to that effect, but he foolishly gave it to Benjamin Franklin to deliver, and that hideous old pervert lost it in a Parisian whorehouse, said "fuck it", and let the good times roll.

But the joke is wearing thin, sir.  We've gone from subtle jokes like the Civil War, to obvious slapstick shit like George Bush Jr, to sheer tastelessness such as Sarah Palin and the entire Arizona state government.

I realize that it's still entertaining to some, but so was Charles in Charge (WARNING:  Do NOT google, for your own sake).  Carrying on a worn out joke for the amusement of a few is pandering of the worst sort, and it's getting harder and harder to write punch lines.  I mean, seriously, how the fuck do we top that dingbat from Alaska?  I'm sure we'll find a way, and I'm equally sure that your Eurospags will continue laughing at us, rather than with us.

Also, some of the jokes were downright irresponsible.  The recent banking gag is one example, and your response with BP just shows that anyone can get sucked into the sort of bad humor that's driving all of us to bad acid.

With that sort of writing, is it any wonder that the Queen has taken to assaulting American tourists with that brick-in-a-bag she calls a "purse"?  I can't say I blame her, particularly given the fact that the average American tourist is too fat and sloppy to out-waddle an 84 year old lady.

So let's get down to the nut-cutting.  You take us back, and we promise to send a few stout lads around to make Margaret Thatcher stop her habit of throwing poisoned darts at random passers-by, out of her Lincolnshire mansion's windows.

Seriously.  We can change.  We'll stop making bad sitcoms and we'll stop fucking up punk rock music.  We won't come sneaking in at 3 in the morning with Big Macs on our breath any more, and we'll apologize publicly for President Bush landing his helicopter in Queen Victoria's rose garden.

So please, forward this to the Queen, and have her send the Royal Navy around to reclaim the colonies.  We'll throw Texas out first, of course, and we'll make the Mormons behave.  I promise.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Cainad,

I see you standing there with your sideburns and your white boy fro.  I see you moving amongst the hipsters, without offering them the violence they deserve.  I see you complaining that you have no flying car, no robot girlfriend, no vacation on the moon.

I see you screaming that this isn't your future, that this is some horrible prison they built around you while you slept.  I see you driving (badly) your vanilla sedan, through your vanilla town full of vanilla people.  I hear you hollering at the idiots and losers and morons that you are forced to share a road with.

I read your posts, your observations, your pain at the stupidity of monkeys around you, your impatience with the primates who have forgotten that they are Gods.  I feel your desire to lash out in spectacular vengeance.

I understand your desire to run amok with your bare face hanging out, screaming in the faces of the doomed multitudes around you.  I see you yearn to see the shocked and disgusted looks on their faces as you bellow the horrible Truth out loud, in front of impressionable children and stupid people who don't know any better, who CAN'T know any better, because we have built a society that teaches people that looking at the Truth is immoral or illegal, and certainly unpatriotic.

I see all of this, Doktor Cainad, I see all of this and more...But you know what?  Your evil and insane urges really aren't evil and insane, it's just that you've been taught that they are, by people who have vested emotional and/or financial reasons to want you to believe that your repressed righteousness is somehow sick and wrong.

But they are wrong, Cainad, even if most of them honestly believe they're doing and saying the right things.  They are fools, and if it weren't for the fact that they're taking us with them, it would be more than appropriate to wave and smile as they leap down the chute, down that long, horrible chute to a place where nobody smiles and lawyers jam writs under your door and all the police really are pigs, and people walk around with unexplained puncture marks all over their backs and nobody can get laid right and rock n roll has been outlawed for your own good.

It seems you don't have to die to go to hell, Cainad.  Oh, no.

Now, I'm not saying we're smarter than they are, sir.  No, I'm saying we're better.  Why?  Because we have Eris and "Bob" and the divine excuses they offer.  It's really that simple. 

This is our century, Cainad.  Let's make the most of it.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Hoopla,

Words cannot express how miserable it was to return to Tucson, after visiting both your beautiful city and Providence, RI.  You have real cities, with people that look like people and have facial expressions like real people, and buildings more than one floor high.

Yet I had to return, and here I sit, breathing powdered coyote shit and cooking to a cinder every time I step foot out of my office.  I am surrounded by desert rats, retirees from North Dakota who think Sarah Palin is Jesus with tits, and junkies of every description.

Oh, how I hate you all.

Enclosed you will find a letter from young Uday, to be passed on to his papa, whom he misses terribly (If he didn't miss his papa so terribly, HE'D be dictator of Salizore).  Please make sure this reaches the Generalissimo.  

Next item:  Abject failure.  We tried to troll the teabaggers at their office in the Maze District, by going totally over the top.  Poe's Law bit us, though, and they tried to recruit us.  Naturally, I signed up, just as I am registered with the republican party (The Dems expelled me in 2008) and a proud, card-carrying member of Focus on the Family.  

Just consider me the right wing's guinea worm, lurking about in their organizations, waiting to strike.  Don't worry, though, I'm not in this for the "long troll", and I won't pull a Fomentor and suddenly turn you all in as the filthy subversives that you are, at least unless there's a lot of money involved.

In fact, my next goal is to get on the mailing list of the Promise Keepers (Google these guys...they're a hoot.)  Miserable sinner that I am, I could use a stay at one of their "retreats", where they instruct you on how to keep your wife barefoot and pregnant, and properly subservient.  Oh, my, Hoops, it's like God put these Yahoos on Earth just for me to fuck with.  It's almost enough to convince me of the benevolence of a superior being.

You should look up some of these boohoos in your area, for my next visit.  I know you have them, though they may be thinner on the ground than they are here.  After all, you silly fuckers elected Mike Harris back in the day, and Harper is still running around with his bare face hanging out, so they have to exist somewhere.  Find them, and when I return (either at Christmas time or early next summer, just like this year), we'll scoop up Nurse Rhizome and go get right with the church, so to speak.

We will march on a road of bones.  We are, after all, professionals.

Okay for now,
Dok

Papa,

Uday is not enjoy trip to Arizona.  True, is many guns and many the crazy peoples, but Uday is not find womens to make sexy time with.  Is ask, is told where womens, but only find dried up mummy, like in caves on Salizore.  Mummies is talk here, but is still mummies.

Uday connect with teabaggers like papa say, but is not like Uday expect.  Is not the sexy at all.  Is stand around street corner with signs, yelling like have Salizoran weasel in pants.  Signs is funny, though, is like teabaggers not from America or even Brampton.  Is say "Obama = Facism" (sic) and "THE CONSTITUTION, REED IT".  Uday is no joking with papa.

Uday is think these teabaggers too stupid for co-opt.  Think we miss boat with John Birch Society 20 year ago.  Is like brownshirts but with food stain all over snappy uniform, is embarrass on battlefield.

Also, Uday is look for ocean, but is only beach.  Is no sexy womens on blanket, only wild pig-rat thing and coyotes.  Is eat Uday guide, Uday only escape by throwing the street urchin at pig-rat and run like Diabo behind Uday.  So like Salizore, only no midgets.

So Uday request transfer to party town like Burlington or Nappannee.  Is even consider St Johns.  Is safer, is not get run over by fat bastard on "mobility scooter".  Papa will consider, yes?  Is better, is mama not "accidentally" get you address.

Love and kisses,
Uday

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Iason,

I trust this finds you and your ever-increasing family to be in fine shape, down in the horrible and degenerate state of Hoosier Land.  Maria and I discussed your options, and we suggest that you have both kids fitted out with prosthetic arm extensions that include 3' stainless steel blades.  It's the only way to be sure that the inbred yahoos and Klansmen from down highway 20 don't get to them.

I once got lost on highway 20, trying to get to Hammond from Chicago.  It was hideous, Iason...The towns were all less than 500 people, there was a church on every block, usually run out of peoples' living rooms, and they all had names like "The First Hallalujah Church of Snake Handling and Cyanide Drinking", or "First Reformed Church of Dagon, Scientist".   I wound up stopping for gas in one of these little burgs, and while I was waiting to pay for my gas, I watched not one, but TWO people buy and eat pickled eggs from a jar that looked like it was made in 1930.  I didn't think anyone actually ate those things.  Horrible, horrible.

Speaking of horrible, I really have to do something about this Indian cuisine habit of mine.  Every Sunday, I have an "India hot" chicken vindaloo...and every Monday, I have to call the plumber for my office bathroom.  Considering what he's forced to deal with, it is hardly any wonder that he starts swearing at me on the phone, and continues swearing at me when he arrives, until he leaves.  He hates me like poison, Iason, and I can't say I blame him.   I've offered him a half-mask, but he only howls inarticulately at me, and sobs like a child as he walks into the bathroom.  This morning, he has told me he's quitting the business, and taking up petty crime for a living.

Well, he knew the risks when he took the job.

One interesting note on Tucson, by the way:  We have a couple of really weird cults spreading here.  One is The Cult of the Black Madonna, which I believe I have mentioned, and which is at least 130 years old, but seems to be growing fairly rapidly.  It seems to be unrelated to the Mexican cult of the same name, and seems to have morphed into a bizarre neo-Luddite thing that destroys electronics at their altars.  The other I haven't identified yet, but seems to be some Egyptian thing or other, that paints a stylized Egyptian eye over the crossed out words "Cops Kill" in fairly prominent, public places.  I at first took it for regular tagging, but the images are identical, and they're popping up everywhere, from South Filth to the Legal District, to Oro Valley.  This, of course, bears further study, and I'll let you know what I find.  Unless they catch me and eat me of course, in which case all bets are off.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Michal,

It's good to see you again after your long absence exploring the ruins of Seattle.  Now that the radiation has decreased to tolerable levels, I am sure you have your work cut out for you, documenting the events that led up to The Big Whoops.

I've seen pictures, and I have to give you credit for sheer guts, working around the horrible mutants that have somehow survived.  They've apparently even become cyborgs, almost like Daleks, whirring around on those little mobility scooter things they use to support their vast bulk...Including the little air bottles they keep their supplies of smog in, as they cannot breathe real air, like you and I.

The media cover up was pretty much total, by the way.  Most Americans don't know that anything happened to Seattle (Hell, most people think Seattle is somewhere in Texas.), and those that do know aren't talking.  I mean, would you?  It's embarrassing.  The Europeans laugh at us, for letting things get out of hand like that.

I mean, it should have been obvious that allowing that many out-of-work 90s rock bands get together at once spelled nothing but trouble, and that fucked up senator of yours didn't help matters, either, when he cracked that joke about "the 11 button" at the University's reactor facility. 

Well, there's no sense crying over spilled neutrons, I guess, and you guys certainly have your work cut out for you...But it could be worse.  You could be here.  We have - I shit you not - killer feral ostriches.  They escape from the ostrich ranches at Casa Grande, eat the wrong plants, and go absolutely batshit.  They can also kick your guts out faster than you can blink, with huge fucking razor sharp talons. 

We also have weird cults, hordes of insane homeless people (Phoenix doesn't like 'em, so they bus them down here.), and every imaginable example of piss-poor driving that the nation has to offer.  We also have the world's worst live bands, even worse than those airheads you guys used to have in Seattle (Hey, who said reactor accidents are all bad, anyway?).

That being said, consider yourself to have an open invitation to come up to the high desert and witness the horror for yourself.  It will make the ruins of Seattle look like paradise.  With mutants.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Pixie,

I trust this letter finds you well, or at least as well as you horrible Southampton thugs can be.   We here in Tucson are the same as ever, bent forward into the hideous rain of shit and failure that Eris has seen fit to bestow on her Holy City™.

The reason I am writing is to enquire into the whereabouts of that Scots bastard you've taken up with.  He's been missing for quite a while, and some of us are beginning to wonder if perhaps something sinister has been going on.  Perhaps a little lime and cement work in the basement?  I hear that is the favored method of body disposal in England, as you garden every square meter that isn't paved over, and nothing CAN sink in the Thames, given the quality of the "water" that flows down it, these days.  Rumor has it that the older houses have bodies stacked 6 deep, down in the cellar.

If on the other hand, you have simply imprisoned him an attic, in some horrible arrangement of gimp mask and bondage gear, merely say so and set our minds at ease.  We are used to these sorts of perversions, but it IS customary to warn others, so that the police aren't called.

Next item of business:  My trip to the UK.  I have heard that there is a river in London that has been completely bricked over and forgotten.  I wish to look for it, for science.  Might be the Trent...I have it written down somewhere. 

The Plan is to hit Scotland, London, and Southampton, sometime in the dead of winter, when the awful stench of your cooking and heroin addicts will be at its lowest point.  I'm thinking January or February.  I expect that you lot will have plenty of horrible filth for me to roll around in, and many spags to do it with.  In addition, I fear not your English women, so bring 'em on, in carload lots.  I am a man of many vile perversions and limitless lusts, and the drugs will only slow me down for so long. 

Also, is there a bag limit on chavs?  We have had to institute one on guidos here, as they are rapidly becoming a threatened species.  They are like children, Pix...Useless to anyone, constantly attention whoring, and they make horrible noises when you kick them.  I am hoping for better sport on your side of the pond.

Lastly, you really do need to improve your aim vis-a-vis the whole Rain God thing.  We're a week overdue for the monsoon season at the time of this writing, and the dew point hasn't budged.  If we don't get some rain soon, the whole fucking state will burn down.  We'll sacrifice your ex-husband on your altar, if that's what it takes, if you tell us where he is.

Okay for now,
Dok

PS:  If you haven't killed the spag, say hello for me once the rufies wear off.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Squid,

Gazing down from my Fortress of Arrogance here in the high desert, I could not help but notice the sheer volume of freedom washing up on your beaches.  That, combined with the fact that 50% of the spill by weight seems to be methane, leads me to urge you to action.

Panic now.

That's right, grab your husband and your kid and even those mutated fucking cats, and head for the high desert.  This is a limited time offer...after we have enough people here, we're all putting on stompin' boots and kicking any further refugees back down the mountain (scores will be tallied, and prizes awarded for number of refugees kicked, style, and sexiness of boots) to their certain doom in the coming chaos.  So don't delay.

No, jump in the car and drive like you stole the fucking thing (Bonus points if you did steal it.).  We're all set up here...Our power plant is archaic, and has "burn anything boilers", so when the oil stops coming in, we can start shoveling in blue hairs, stranded snowbirds, and people from Phoenix.  We can bump the octane, if needed, simply by jamming a hobo or two in the hopper (Note to self:  Not too many hoboes at once.).

And as long as we have power, we have water.  Sure, the water has more minerals in it than a '67 Chevy, but that's what filters are for, right?  And the cadmium runoff from Davis Monthan AFB only makes us stronger.

The best part of this is that you already have the style we're looking for, based on the pics you have posted.  All you have to do is give your husband a mohawk, strap him into a leather harness and jockstrap ala The Road Warrior, and teach your kid how to fire and maintain a crossbow. 

We'll even give you dibs on trashing the local Wells Fargo offices, and dealing with any management refugees that show up on the slopes of our perfect little utopia.

Seriously, you aren't going to receive a better offer than this, from any of the other enclaves.  Except Denver, of course, but they're full of religious retards that drink Coors because they like it.  You want to hang out with people like that?  Of course you don't.  Besides, we have cactus.  They have Advil.  Not a difficult decision.

Okay for now,
Dok

PS:  Don't bring any religious freak neighbors.  We have a gene pool to consider here, and we don't want any NASCAR leaking in.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Telarus,

Please be advised that we here in Tucson have had it up to our bottom lip with your incessant denigration of our fair city.  I have heard that your city's motto is "Keep Portland Weird", but so far I have yet to see anything weird come out of Portland.  I mean, it's not really all that weird, is it?

Sure, you have "the pipe", and you have that weird shit going on at Washington & 10th, and of course the tunnels, but that's about it.  Other than that, you have 582,100 vanilla hippies, and about 30 Discordians.  And everything's do damn NICE there, that it makes me wish to bring the fucking hammer down on you.  No wonder people keep driving off your bridges.  I would, if I lived there.

So, yeah, enough talking trash about our fair city.  I mean, I'm not denying that we have cannibal street urchins, and I'd be the last to tell you that we don't have at least two really strange cults growing at alarming rates, and I'm not going to bullshit you and say we don't have huge unemployment numbers, meth heads coming out of every orifice, and entirely too many dumb people with guns...But at least we have the biggest per-capita population of perverts, killer fucking ostriches (!!!), the highest population of refugees (Who brought their cuisine with them.), and 4 Casinos that routinely and proudly showcase the very worst musical acts of the 70s and 80s.

Do YOU get Captain and Tennile live in concert, even if they are on life support? 

HAH!  WE DO.  We also get Terry Jacks.  Fucking owned.

Yes, and those very same casinos sport the very finest lounge lizards.  I can state with authority that our lounge scum are superior to that of Atlantic City or even Las Vegas.  Here, the leisure suit never goes out of style, and Debbie Dean is worshipped at little shrines they built next to the men's room.

True, Elton John is playing at the Ava next week, but he prepared for it by singing at Rush Limbaugh's wedding, so he fits.

Also, you have way too much water.  You let it just run on by.  This is because your city is decadent and weak, and will be easy pickings when we come boiling out of the high desert, like a plague of wrinkled up leather...Imagine 200,000 screaming Clint Eastwoods (and they're the youngins!). 

You're fucked.  We will cough consumptively until you all die of summer colds.  Then we'll take your water, and loot your homes for actual wooden furniture.  The plastic stuff makes everything static-y.

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Vexation,

I've been running some calculations, and it seems that the Tucson Effect will result in your reentry sometime next year, at the corner of  12th and Ajo.  The impact will leave a crater approximately 35 feet deep, and have the equivalent explosive power of 10 Richter/Vindaloo ass bombs. 

The only way to prevent this, of course, is to come here under your own power.  Remember that nobody ever actually escapes, and the longer you stay away, the worse things will be when the inevitable happens.

And why would you stay away?  There is no better place to study the coming horrors of the 21st century, after all...Tucson is the distilled essence of all that is horrible and wrong with America.  It's like Las Vegas without the cheap glitz, or Disney World without the veneer of Pollyanna-ism and nostalgia for a 1950s that never actually existed.

Don't think of it as a city...Think of it as a laboratory.  A place where we can study and catalogue the various criminals, junkies, homeless homicidal maniacs, and corrupt politicians in their native environment, so that we can accurately predict what the rest of the country will look like in 10 years or so.

It's horrible and it's awful, sir, but we do this shit for science.

Not that this will help anything, of course, but pure science isn't about application, it's about simple knowledge gathering.  Leave the futile attempts to stave off doom to the professors and their variant of nurses.

Because we know, don't we?  We have seen the future, and we recognize the face of degeneracy when we see it.  World-wide, our culture is baroque at best, and terminal at worst.  The best you and I can hope for is to go down in the next civilization's history as the next Cicero, vainly screaming across the centuries to a future that will make their children study us, but won't actually listen.

I mean, we sure as hell haven't paid any attention to Cicero, right?  Every thing we're doing is what he screamed about.  He screamed and screamed until they finally cut his head and hands off, and nailed them over the senate door to get the message across to anyone else that might have had any bright ideas.

No, we're going to do the same silly shit the Romans did, and the civilization that follows us after IT happens (whatever IT happens to be) will do the same thing again.  Rinse, repeat.  We, as a species, are slow learners...But at least you and I, like Cicero, can snark from the grave with an ectoplasmic "WE TOLD YOU SO!".

Okay for now,
Dok

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Dear Doktor Vitriol,

Enclosed you will find one copy of MSY #1, and what appears to be a small quantity of my pubic hair, though how it got in there is a mystery to me.  Strange things often happen around here, and I am constantly getting hair torn out, weird welts and puncture wounds on my back, and the image of the bad Baby Jesus spontaneously appearing in my feces.

If I were not a man of science, I would presume that I am being haunted...But I AM a man of science, and I suspect that Maria has been sneaking in at night and slaking her perverse and depraved lusts on my virtuous personage while I sleep.

But enough of that.  I have the shameful duty of reporting failure on the haggis project.  We had decided to ignore your sound advice, and approach it from a large-scale model.  However, the many of the sheep kept jamming up the chipper, and the wading pool turned out to be unequal to the task of supporting both the output of the chipper and the cement mixer load of oatmeal. 

The resulting mess flowed down La Canada Road and drowned some geezer on his mobility scooter.  I could see the poor bastard at the bottom of the valley, spinning the wheels of his scooter, but with his bulk on it, he didn't stand a chance.  Poor fucker didn't even have any scotch to drink while he sank into the vile effluent. We did throw a sack of tatties and neeps in after him, but he only cursed us as the muck flowed over him.

That's the problem with this city, Doktor, there's no appreciation for new food experiences.  And no gratitude.

This is yet another reason why I am looking forward to visiting your fine country during the dead of winter.  I have been told that is in fact the best time to come, as the trash and sewage is all too frozen to smell, and most of the junkies will either be hunkered down in forgotten alleyways or they've slid down the street into the Tay and frozen to death.

I should like to see at least one castle while I am there, both because I am a shameless tourist (we have no cool shit like that here), and because I wish to write down some ideas for my eventual lair.  One with an oubliette would be preferable, as this will be a prime consideration in the construction plans.

I'm thinking January or February, though I am flexible to some degree.  I will, of course, be expecting some fine filth to roll around in, and some horrible bastards to roll with.  I hear you have a supply of both, so I look forward to this trip with confidence.  Also, I have had my shots, I fear not your hideous fleshpots and pubs of ill-repute.

Okay for now,
Dok

PS:  I shall be steeling my nerves (and arteries), and would prefer to try some authentic Scottish food.  I will sign any required waivers.