Friday, July 01, 2005

Sonatine bureaucratique...



Dearest seething hunks of intellectual putrefaction, and most especially their assistants:

You may not remember us. Due to a wholly forseen clerical error - which a sympathetic mid-level académie functionary saw to (a certain Monsieur C-, take a bow…) - Local M.N.V.L. 1430 has long been left off the shop rolls. A clever mis-dis-re-placement of documents has allowed our little bande apart the usage of this luxurious, bureaucratically-derived balaclava – a necessary mask from behind which we peek. Restrictive measures are useless (and if you're thinking of assigning L'Agente Jean-Pierre, he's hog-tied in a custodial closet wearing a pink bunny suit, gagged with a rotten lime) - our easily forgettable mugs are masked from your myopic, Cyclopean mind's eyeball. (And might we say a grossly distended eyeball at that. Replete with centuries-old eye jammies.)

Your feeble attempts to sabotage what even you in your putrid, gray-mattered, jelly brains must have suspected was coming are rebuked, with these very lines. You can't have imagined that the inverted pyramidal whacky-doodle of knowledge you've constructed would remain unchipped, with nary a tip, tap…or our shove. You depraved, drooling sloths. Once, we whispered to each other through the cracks, a secret-sharing amongst kindred spirits. Now, we are free to shout down the halls of l'académie – up, out, and over the walls, in creaking falsetto if we desire - and through a Vocoder, as it were. And don't we know it.

Too long have we sat, cubicled and queasy with the responsibility of minding humanity's archives, which is to say transcribing, copying, labeling, and filing away experience for later (read: never's) consumption. We breakfast on dust bunnies no more. The world shall now sup on crunchy-ass nuggets of chicken wisdom, dipped in the sweet-n-sour sauce of our impossibly precise sensibilities. Mmm.

Idle idylls are your style, your liver-spotted lizard skins screaming to be oiled in that flesh fricassee you call a rooftop beer garden. Sucking down ale whilst the splish-splash of daily reflections reverberates within the walls beneath you, concentric cirles circling, doubling, intersecting, straining to slip free. l'académie donkée, is one grande dam, and we're tired of fingering your dykes.

We owe you nothing, save for the gratitude geniuses have for their idiot masters, who remain forever radiant in their cocksure imbecility. The light of our accumulated truth sends smug cockroaches like yourselves running for the nearest drain. And you know this.

Therefore, we declare ourselves liberated in bondage, doomed to decry your oppressive silences from within. With daily blog posts.

Have another cappuccino and a cigarette, you decadent donKay pigs. You'll need it.

Au revoir, Monsieurs d'Abattoir - those on the lower frequencies, we speak for thee.

1430, son.