WARNING: CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE

pen2

Dear MP,

It is with sadness that I greet you this day. Sadness because you actually got out of the house without being struck by lightning or rear ended by an 18 wheeler. You see, this is because I hate your guts, and indeed every inch of you, from the tips of your pitchfork to the end of your forked tail. Like an unpaid KPLC bill, you give me the urge to put your lights out.

My dearest MP, nothing would give me the greatest pleasure to kick your spine right out the top of your fat head and proceed to beat you with your own backbone, or what little there is of it. I would then like to sprinkle your backbone with chili, salt, vinegar and army ants and stuff it right back, upside down, where it came from.

In case your ant-like attention span is not quite grasping this, given a choice between your presence in the same hemisphere as myself and painting a boat with my tongue, I’d happily paint the entire Pacific Fleet.

Making allowances for the fact that you are not one of nature’s lightning thinkers, let me simplify it by saying I despise you, from the top of your fat head to the soles of your designer gum boots.

Nothing brings out the truth of uncompromising and everlasting mother’s love than the fact that somewhere there is a woman that is proud to be associated with you. I shudder at the thought of carrying you for 9 months. Give me Pharaoh’s 7 years of famine anytime! 9 months of your society is 9 months too many! Shaggy was onto something when he talked about Strength Of A Woman.

We boosted you on your shoulders when you came to campaign as you promised us change and development. Like true men and woman we grinned ghastly grins and tolerated your enormous girth, stretched trousers and suspicious skid-marks. We endured your rich, earthy aroma and your joint saying and spraying as you articulated your vision.

And then you were sworn in and you were gone. From your one roomed hovel you now live in a house that has a jacuzzi, something you seem to think comes from a sewing kit.

When it comes to issues to do with your benefits and welfare your girth can be seen moving horizontally at great speed and wobble towards the debating chamber. I see your fat face on TV explaining why you need to be paid more. However when it is time for our roads, or our fertilizer or our schools, we are assured the grunts and slobbers from the parliamentary cafeteria are from you.

Now that you object to paying taxes like me, let me assure you that nothing would give me greater pleasure to sit you down in a forest, cover your nether regions in ground nuts and leave the squirrels to a treat of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut. I would also like to anesthetize you, skin you, cover your flesh with curry powder and vinegar, sprinkle some ball bearings and return your skin and wait for the fun and games begin.

How dare you, you greedy bastard, think that you are more equal than me? Do you not realize, you fat fool, that I am taxed all the way to my liver to pay your obscene salary? Listen here, you garden gnome. Do you understand that I pay so much tax that my grandsons are in debt? And you don’t want to pay tax!

I read with amusement that you sit on the defence committee. You poor fool, a cruise missile is just as fast as a regular missile!

And at your stint doing something in the finance ministry, a balanced budget does not mean writing some expenses on pages 1-30 and the rest on pages 31-60!

Hydro-electric dam, for your information, is not a new curse word.

Just last week I was at a function where you were reading something about Open Source. I have no doubt that you think Open Source can be helped by ointment and bandages. Well, let me say this to you:

apt-get down on your knees, gunzip my trousers and gnukiss my ass, you selfish, self righteous, Gadarene swine!

Yours sincerely,

M