September 6th, 2007
Salvete, obnoxious turd peddlers!
I am ashamed to have read the excremental quasi literary filth that you inept half-breeds have sent me over the past year. And you would be, too, were you but in the possession of the required cerebral aptitude.
Every month, without fail, you have managed to supply me and my staff with the most distasteful, boring and worthless garbage that I can only attribute to your philistine lack of artistic talent, and I am – to be quite frank – fed up with it all. Your meaningless meandering in the decrepit realm of pointless scribbling was so far below par that I swear I could even hear tearful moans seeping out of the tongueless mouth of my trusty manservant Tacito.
As I have chosen to relocate myself – and Tacito, of course – to the colonies, due to some tax-related disagreements twixt myself and His Majesty, Popplepress – the way you have come to enjoy, appreciate and indeed revere – shall be no more, inasmuch as I refuse to take part in this blasphemous endeavour any further. Instead, I have given full control of the empire to young and virile Lords Boyling and Ponkleton, who, I am sure, will maintain the legacy of my admirable loins, as best as they can. Rumour has it, that their witty correspondence shall be the focus of Popplepress, at least in the foreseeable future.
Alas, as Lord Boyling is at the moment going through what my physicist describes as a momentary lapsus, in that he is trying on the proletarian lifestyle, working his knuckles to the bone in the South of glorious Sweden, and Lord Ponkleton has Grand Tour:ed over to la bella Italia, there to pursue la dolce vita in all its wonderful excess, Popplepress will no longer be able to accommodate all of your inferior urges. Let’s face it, dear understanders of writing, our two favourite noblemen, save myself of course, have done most of the work thus far...
So, as I sit here, resting comfortably on a set of young, barefoot Indian twin boys, dictating this last editorial in the string of brilliant monologues that I have hitherto produced from the heavenly innards of my breathtaking intellect, I can only hope that you will not look back in melancholy. I know you’ll miss me. In fact, there is no doubt in my superior mind that the travesty of your plebeian hearts will ache and cry blood over the veritable abyss in your ant-like lives that my leaving you will beget, but who knows? I might just have Tacito send a comment of mine your way, by dépêche.
And remember, the female perspective on any given topic is not worth even an ounce of credence, regardless of the circumstances, unless it is brought to light by means of sign language and/or smoke signals in a poorly lit venue. Also, drink urine.
Yours superiorly,
Roderick Popplestone |
