Music

[WORTHAUGERa]

It's the LOUDNESS 😱

For my own part, let me be the first to say that this is not an anagram for “needles.” Goddam.

[Asuka Langley]

[Asuka Langley]

[pate]

For my own part, let me be the first to say that this is not an anagram for “needles.” Goddam.

[pate]

[pate]

[Asuka Langley]

[Asuka Langley]

>dat lip ring

oh lawd she remind me of mai waifu

[Asuka Langley]

[Asuka Langley]

[pate]

[pate]

[pate]

[Jackstar]

Here's what the letter says:

Dear Xavier (heh heh) High School, and Ms. Lockwood, and Messrs Perin, McFeely, Batten, Maurer and Congiusta:

I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (1984) in his sunsetting, "Son-setting-on-my-lap-GET-ME-A-SWITCH-B****" years. I don't make public appearances any more because--SNIPER!!!--even though I have single-handedly outlawed the now-obsolete and totes barbaric (srsly) practice formerly known as "being a massive, cowardly douchbag, but at some historical point in the semi-recently experienced historical past, came to be referred to as "A Loyal Member Of A Loyalist Gangstalking Unit)", I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana manta ray falsely accused of murdering Steve Irwin.

What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, espionage... no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow.

Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives, Punylings. Draw a funny (ha!) or nice (FU ROT) picture of Ms. Lockwood (W****.), and give it to her (pimp/father). Dance home after school, and sing in the (tall) shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. {tower@}--- --pretend you're Count Dragula Richard Dreyfuss. (Except, you know, not a fag.)

Here's an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don't do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed--then, send it to your husband without letting your boyfriend read it, not just, read it first, but, never read it, FUCKING EVER. No fair tennis without a net. No fair oysters without hotsauce. No fair machine elves without good machine cog parts. Make it as good as you possibly can--but not too good, ya hear? YOU HEAR ME, BOY? YEAH, I BET YOU FUCKING DO. But don't tell anybody what you're doing. Don't show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK? Sure, I bet that's okay with you. You're an Ace Student, Right? You're ALL ACE STUDENTS IN A WHOLE, GIFT-WRAPPED PACKAGE. (Wow, what's that even like? You fucking Kids are fucking Lucky, that's for fucking sure.)

Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals [sic]--assuming you can't fit them either up your ass or jammed straight into the straightest part of your fucking pie-eating fucking pie-holes, you fucking worthless fucking maggots. You will find-someday-that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your... uh... poem. Yeah. Poem. I guess that's what we're calling it now? Yeah, okay: sure, Johan. You have experienced becoming, you have experienced dying in agony from the ass cancer in your head, and you have learned a lot more about what's inside you, and you have made your soul grow. For example, if I asked you what was inside of you, just a few short months ago, how many of you would have instantly repsonded with, "CANCER THAT IS GOING TO KILL ME IN 90 DAYS, MOTHERFU- *click*"? Probably not many. Well, that number is a larger integer now. You're welcome.

God bless you all!

Kurt Vonnegut some asshole needle junkie turboslut

[Colonel Pate Manly]

...

Well done, laddie!