Well, it sure seems that Yours Offended By The Alphabet Producer Truly sure hasn’t won any friends as of late. But you know what Yours Offended By The Alphabet Producer Truly says about friends don’t you? “Friends: people who talk shit behind your back when you are not around to hear it.” And having no friends, y’all should hear the constant derogatory self deprecating soliloquy of which Yours Offended By The Alphabet Producer Truly serenades himself with. Orchestral spoken word masterpiece conducting greatness! Orson Welles has nothing on my mischievous mutterings.

But why do they hate me so? One reason or another, perhaps a combination of multiple. Okay, seems plausible. But why does the alphabet offend thee so? Could it be last weeks scathing rebuke of Unions and the complacency they seem to spread, along with the egregiously misspent power used to run roughshod over thirty-eight million people for a service which, without question,  should be declared as that of being essential for life necessitating equilibrium? Really, unions do serve some purpose, of which was certainly more needed in decades past, but have seemingly transmogrified into modern day Hydras. My mom was in the Hospital Workers Union for a few decades and I do not despise dear old departed mom so. Unions just Ain’t my cup of tea-bagging. I much prefer to ‘Do As When In Roam.” I stand by flaying the Cana-duh Post Union and any lazy fuck-face who thinks that holding hostage thirty-eight million people during the busiest and family oriented time of year is not an act of cowardice and antisocial character defunctness. Call me a scab, but if I was a postie, I would be out five days a week delivering apology letters to all those on my routes.

Then, there was that embarrassing debacle about Yours Hairy Palms Truly wanting to burnish his own stone in absolute privacy in what should be the sanctity of his absolute place of refuge without fuck-faced perverts burning holes in the back of his head; nor deciphering what he recently chose to donate to the Hospice Thrift Store before he lefthis own fucking house. But, no, that can’t be the source of sullen reflections galore. Mine, yes, theirs, doubtful.

Hmm, perhaps it could be from when Yours Gets Drunk On A Work Night Once A Week Truly does in fact get drunk on occasion and texts himself with derogatory, offensive, and clever witticisms insults that are meant for the top level unpolished-brass bigwigs with the littlest twigs, but somehow those further down the totem pole mistakenly think my snidely remarks are addressed to them. Yup, think that may be the bulk of it. Okay, maybe it is the trifecta. Trust me, Yours Stuck In The Trenches Truly has zero issues with the frontline, other than the bigwigs with little twigs use them to cowardly hide behind, and I would gladly say it to their bigwig with little twig faces If I was not a customary contagious leper held at bay upon upon a sickly deserted island of despair. And trust me, they can go fuck themselves, with bells on! No, I stand by my drinking and texting offerings to myself, and could actually recite them verbatim to anyone who asked. Now that is dedication to a cause. Not only so, but I would happily debate, with passion, any or all of the biggest wigs with the littlest twigs, in any geographical location of their choice, about the accusatory witticisms insults hurled forth in text form as to whether they are indeed, either partially or fully what Yours Drunken Self Texter Truly thought the possibility of a fair descriptive analysis. But since the inability to rub two intelligent words in my direction is a universe ending conundrum in their world, my call on the field will have to stand: “Two minutes for hooking, just like their mothers.”

So how’s about a little dedication to those bigwigs with little twigs: Other than “Fuck You” that is: Yes, private sector bigwigs with little twigs too!: Especially those private sector little twigs:

If Looks Could Kill,

I would have just ripped your fucking anemic heart out through your semen encrusted bellybutton, and as you shit yourself in fright, the only thing to escape was an abundance of oversized anal-beads, by the bakers dozen, and the beach sand that y’all use for lube. Then as y’all crumpled to your natural position, on your knees, the engrained reflexive action of you mouth’s opening not so very tall or wide at all instinctively kicked in in death, just as it did in daily workload rituals.

Yeah, if looks could kill, your emasculate atomic structure just instantaneously vaporized upon my gaze, into absolute nothingness. Nope, no energy to be spent, nor accounted for. Poof! just gone. None the wiser, none the more, my universe just took a monumental step in attaining enlightened equilibrium. Nothing left but a suspended in midair laptop satchel defying gravity as the rate of disintegration into oblivion defied all known scientific phenomena, hypothesized and proven. That’s right, nothing left but a suspended in midair laptop satchel defying gravity. A laptop satchel permeated with your only trace – the overbearing stink of cowardice and workplace semen. Obviously with a few colouring books inside said satchel, of which were fully coloured outside the lines. Not a goddamn laptop in sight! Very strange indeed. Not even a copy of the book – Revolution For Dummies. I think we may be in serious trouble here people!

Yeah, if looks could kill, my mere presence, of which used to reignite outed city streetlights, but now extinguishes their ability, would suck your veneerial (thin skin) diseased peepers right out of your skulls, of which when the minuscule PSI whisped out of said braincase, the immediate vacuous soul in your humbled possession mercilessly inhaled for life, in doing such, imbibed but one of Yours Offended By The Alphabet Producer Truly’s tears of joy upon the site, of which a microscopic microcosm of enlightenment shedded daily in my higher-calling universe seeding experiment was but too much for said body politic to absorb, as such, like a “royal’s” tallywacker in its octogenarian grandmother, exploded with such force, it where the Royal Observatory Greenwich coined the term, ‘Big Bang Theory.” And that is how Queen Charles the Turd was born, and his father, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father’s father too! True story. Just ask his mother, rotting way in Hell.

Which reminds me of an excerpt from some poetry that the historian and poet Catullus wrote two thousand years ago when speaking of his ordeal with Julius Caesar and his too loyal followers, and what surely must have been a cycle of ignorance to be trapped within. It went as so:

Long and slow you fucked me
in the mouth face up
with all that cock!

Yup, all that cock! minuscule, minuscule cock. But yessir, a lot of it at that! Fucking me in the mouth that is. And not even dirty talk at that.

Debate: anytime, anywhere!