Dear Boofhead-in-Chief,
Last Saturday I received a non-personally-addressed copy of the Mercury. Tossed over my fence. FFS, we’ve just had a Federal election, do you think you can impress me with a pink-wrapped firestarter? I have decided not to sue you for damages, despite me falling over aforesaid litter and into the artichokes not already knocked off by Spring snails.
Indeed I have further decided to ask you to never send me your newspaper – and I use the term loosely – again. In fact, don’t contact me at all. This includes, but is not limited to, letters, telephone calls, SMS messages, Morse code, Da Vinci code, TV advertisements, billboards, faxes (remember them?), semaphore, smoke signals, interpretative dance, symbolic tai chi, gorillagrams, courier notes delivered by 3-legged Tas devils, messages in bottles, patterns of light in the night sky, ESP, tiny holograms dropped via droids/drones/drongos (Andrew Bolt), messenger pigeons, Skype, therapeutic puppets and rickrolls.
Please, just fuck off.
Even if you were the last paper on earth, and I needed some publicity for my post-apocalyptic production of The Bacchae performed by cockroaches in drag and radioactive bandicoots, I might not send your reviewer a ticket. You’d probably have to pay at the door and promise not to hang around my dressing room with your The Earth Is Flat! tie dragging across the floor.
And your phone-hacking mobile would need to be switched off. I don’t just hate you, I hate all News Limited papers equally.
I hate that obnoxious slubberdegullion Piers Akerman. I hate your pretence to be ‘for Tassie’ when you’ve been talking the place down endlessly for years. I hate your guileless barracking for a cable-car-to-nowhere; if you believe in it, you put up the $100 million backing it will need.
Hello? Hello? Anybody there?! I hate your false legitimacy from being the only paper in town.
You want me to buy your sucky rag. I get it. How many thousands of copies has your circulation declined in recent years? Shame innit that your publication is dying on the vine, riddled with multiple kankers of footyism, dig-it-up-chop-it-downism, jingoism.
Unfortunately I am unable to subscribe because I have:
a) a brain;
b) a conscience;
Please note that the above, despite my precious anonymity, already assures you that I am not Senator Eric Abysmal.
c) access to other sources of news that aren’t pre-digested by News Corp;
d) a celebratory dance to wheel out, and how, when the Murkery is fitted for a body bag.
FOR THE LOVE OF RUPERT … whoops … GOD, STOP SENDING ME YOUR TRASH. NOTHING ON EARTH WILL CONVINCE ME TO BUY OR READ YOUR BILIOUS BUGLE OF BASTARDRY.
THOUGH IF I FIND A COPY IN A PUBLIC LIBRARY I WILL SPIT ON IT WISTFULLY.
Yours sincerely,
The Householder
p.s. Under consumer law, you are entitled to a refund or exchange if you are dissatisfied with the Prime Minister you purchased on September 7. Go on, make our day.
p.p.s. I’ve been looking through the Dick Smith catalogue for a quadrocopter I can use to defend the airspace over my front gate. It’s war baby.
• And …
From Liberty Blitzkrieg blog – http://libertyblitzkrieg.com/ – via Zerohedge:
