I could do with you fucking off

Whoever said "I'm a poet and I didn't even know it" first should have been hung and then shot. It would have set a good precident.

I'm in a bad mood.

Hey aclaimed British author Eoin Colfer - I purposely pronounce your first name wrong when I say it in my head and I don't appreciate your writting new Hitch Hiker's guide to the Galaxy books. I hope you understand that by doing this your taking something a consider sacred and possibly cocking it the cock up. And I say cock because that means you're fucking it up British style. If you've written a book that's even supremely above average I'm going to hate you. Simply the fact that you're stepping into the shoes of an author I revere means we've started off on terrible terms. And the worst part - the worst part is I have no choice but to read this book. I swear to the god Adams didn't believe in that if you George Lucas'd this series there'll be hell to pay.

Hey New Scientist Magazine, when you announced that you were taking submissions of flash fiction set 100 years in the future for a contest, I assumed you would get a Chinese garbage scow's worth of enviro-disaster shorts. I seem to be on the mark as seven of the nine stories you've published were variations on Pixar's Wall-E. Now I'm not saying that I don't believe in global warming, but next time I'll make sure to write to your politics and name my protagonist Gal Ore. And I'm not saying I should have made the cut, I'm just saying the winning story requires enough suspension of disbelief to hold up the Golden Gate Bridge.

And another thing

Dear Bawler,

Who taught you how to walk like that? My god, I would say your shoulders swayed like a boxer in slow motion if that didn't make it sound as though there was something graceful involved. You walk forwards and sideways at the same time. When you stand in one place to order your ground Starbucks coffee you jack yourself up and to the left, standing on your right toe. Your shoulders are level though, you must compensate by bringing the left one up and dropping its counter weight. This is my theory anyway. The folds of your volumptuous hoodie make distinguishing where you begin and end into guesswork. Is your goal to take up more space? Mission accomplished: no one wants to fight you and your ridiculous pants. You mutter something as your walk out the door. It sounds like a complaint or a rap lyric. You lumber off into the night, the crotch of your jeans a hammock between your knees, your shoulders wobbling like a circus bear on the high wire, your green flat brimmed hat making your look, nearly impossibly, even dumber.


I feel better.