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It's outrageously, self-defeatedly atypical of you to convert and subvert the established norms of societal interaction in order to attempt to confound this twisted and deluded ideology of hate.


In seeking to avoid becoming what you love, you instead love what you have become. And as you know this very well, you don't need me to point this out to you. In fact in drawing me into doing so you have enlisted me in your dirty, unchivalrous and dangerous game. I should hate you for that but I feel only the pity the damned have for the saved.


Reply if you must, but remember that I am on to you.

"We called while you were out. Please call the number above to arrange redelivery"


The Greeks had a name for such bare-faced deception, and I'm gaspingly agape you should seek to shake your mendacious tail feathers at me in that manner. You called while I was out? You called, while I was out? I'm flabbered and ghasted as to where to begin in deconstructing that little den of inequitous and sub-acqueous lacquer. And no, I will not call any number, being neither a fat-breasted bingo employee nor/delete/neither a slick-tongued denizen of the financial rape factories we modishly call the City.


I am on to both you and your goatishly naive game-play.

"Please touch Oyster Card on reader to begin"


I refuse to be fooled by the reverse-engineered fallacy of your imprecations to touch, hover, or in any way submit my prepaid electronic wallet to random inquisition by your goon-squad technology and its subsequent base financial imprecations to delete from my personal, and private, and privately personal, pocket book sums to be pre-paid on the premise of a promise of accommodating my desires for future travel. Furthermore, although you seek to deny it, my Oyster is indeed not mine, but held in trust with no reference to past heirarchical structures of predetermined biological organisational organisms. My Oyster is, in fact, the worlds. Please don't align yourself with those basely constructed idiots who would aver the reverse. You still have the chance to be better than that.


I have, as they no doubt used to say in the dankly opportunistic whorehouses of Siam, sussed you out.

Looks like a certain resident of SE15 has turned their dial to MAX


An opportunistic dig that combines a modish refusal to name names with a tacit admission that you are unable to confront reality, and instead prefer to gamble with the concept of a known truth. If you need someone to tuck you in at night, please be aware that that chocolate under the pillow will rot your teeth while you dream of the death of virtue.


Yeah, really mean. I mean, really.

Huh? Am I missing something here...? Please explain in layman's terms as my humble head can't process much more than tgat.


That you seek to proclaim your own humility is, combined with the Italianate diminutive nomenclature you appropriate, a base rhetorician's trick that will fool only those who would be willing, like children returning to the sweet bowl after an emetic exculpation of their greeed, to be fooled. It's the oldest trick in the alchemist's lost book, son.


That you seek from me a further religiously orthodox explanation when I already have taken great pains to clarify and scarify my prose to the bare bear bones, as if to thrust upon me the accoutrements of theocratic doctrine and the sterile onanism of the seminary is, frankly Frankito, outrageous.


I will not, as Prometheus would have no doubt uttered if he had just manned up, be bound by you. No rock, no liver - cry me an onion. If this seems harsh I will only state that you, to borrow an endearment from the sub-strata of discourse you are already wallowing in, started it.

Hardly Karter, hardly. I am however, off my tits on tramadol. Though you should not infer from this that my love for Ted is anything but pure and true.


Other things make me want to write like an angry balloon. Ted Max makes me want to sing of rainbows on kittens and snow on my mittens.

  • 2 months later...

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