After the firestorm caused by the incisive and brilliant political analysis of McDougal’s Open Letter to America from a Canadian appearing in the Baltimore Chronicle, which proved among other things that the FBI killed JFK, blew up the World Trade Center, assassinated Enron executives and of course the international banking conspiracy that runs the world (see Kampf, Mein) and that all Americans spend their time eating cheeseburgers while watching COPS, we had no choice but to give a public craving more, more Open Letters from that same fount of brilliance. While they seem to concern more ordinary everyday affairs, they nevertheless contain that same scintillating wit and trademark mastery of rhetoric and logic, that made the original Open Letter to America from a Canadian such a masterpiece of political oratory in our time.
READ AT YOUR OWN RISK:
Open Letter to My Upstairs Neighbor
Dear Mr. Sagall,
And so it has come to this.
Our once untroubled relationship has gone by the wayside as you seem to have descended into a pervasive madness that causes me to question your sanity and shudder in terror at the horrors your diseased mind is set to loose upon your downstairs neighbor.
You are a sick man, but you continue to carry on as if nothing is the matter. Strange noises resound through the thin walls of our building. Horrid animal noises. Your dubious excuse for this has been to claim that these satanic wails are meant to be some form of music, yet I would contend that they are nothing less than the willful and craven means to intimidate me into rescinding my complaint to the landlord and the police over the inappropriate noises by you and the succession of whores who traffic their way into your apartment.
You have become a whoremonger, Mr. Sagal.
I have long tolerated a seemingly endless succession of your crimes. The noises your bicycle makes early in the morning. The time your newfangled toaster oven blew out the electrical circuits leaving me in the dark to contemplate the newfound depths of your evil as I was deprived of my weekly broadcast from Mr. Lyndon LaRouche. The number of visitors to your apartment who knocked on my door, claiming to have accidentally mistaken my apartment for yours, though this is clearly impossible as our two apartments are on different floors and marked by different numbers.
I have seen your soda bottles piled in the bin like a mountain of human skulls. I have gazed upon the trash you collect in large oversized bags the color of darkness, of your black heart, hoping to conceal their contents from me. But though the material of which they were made was tough, it was not impenetrable and I know that you have had an ear infection as recently as this February. Yes I know that and many other things about you and when the time comes I shall reveal them to an eagerly waiting world which has not yet come to know you for monster you are. And still despite all these atrocities I remained silent (except for my anonymous notes signed ‘A Vigilant Watcher’ and ‘The Shadow’ hoping the madness of your parties and your endless carousing would come to their close. Yet matters have only grown worse.
You stood by as Mrs.. Zanuck in 3B slaughtered untold amounts of innocent ants and roaches with a bug spray. A chemical bug spray full of pesticides. And when her own supply ran out, you gave her more. Your conscience was not troubled by the terror that she wrought, nor was your soul stirred by the chemical messages of desperate ants scurrying for shelter as they were poisoned, exterminated from the air. Adolf Hitler himself could have been no more ruthless, no more callous to their helpless plight. No monstrous tyrant in all of history had more crimes to his record than yours. Not the worst butcher felt so little pity for his victims as you. And in your cynical arrogance you say that they are only ants. You say that if they stopped living in my apartment, there would be no need to kill them.
And yet this entire campaign was a folly. The ants have returned as have the resources. Your chemical perversions of nature could not keep them down. And yet rather than recognize the folly of your actions, you continue to perpetuate this same hopeless campaign with more powerful and lethal bug sprays. Blind to your own evil madness, you seek out more powerful chemical substances from the supermarket like a madman never satisfied with the carnage he has wrought against the helpless and the innocent.
How can you look at yourself in the mirror every morning, Mr. Sagall? Does this record of your crimes not trouble you in the least? You were never concerned about the impact of your disgraceful behavior. No you were too busy swilling all sorts of alcoholic drinks and listening to vile music that leaks through the walls like toxic waste polluting my mind and my sprit. No it’s simply time for you to party again.
Go back to your ten billionth party, Mr. Sagall. Stuff your rotten decaying corpus with every form of vile snack and beverage. Let the toxic rhythms of your stereo system destroy your hearing and the last sad remnants of your brain. You’ve never used it anyway. Since you refuse to listen, you might as well be deaf and since you refuse to think, you may as well be brain dead.
When did you stop caring Mr. Sagall? Was it when you first moved into the building and you dropped a gum wrapper in the lobby? Was it when you began radiating secret orders to my cat, Paine, forcing her to do your dirty bidding to spy on me, thus forcing me to poison her kibbles with draino? Does your conspiring with the Martian Priests from the Ancient Cult of Gra not cause you the least bit of worry, even though by doing so you have betrayed your own race?
Forget it, just throw another party.
You excoriate those courageous souls like myself and 89 year old Mr. Shelby from 4E, though they are the only individuals in this building who have the courage to condemn your amoral lifestyle and alien conspiracies. You hound them as you hounded me when you called me a ‘loon’, a ‘crazed kook’ and a ‘nut-job who needs to be locked up in a loony bin.’ And yes I remember when you sent your hired goons from the telephone company to fix my line, even though there was nothing wrong with it at the time.
Mr. Sagall, you are a goddamn shame.
What law matters now in your despicable state? What justice? What truth?
When will you wake up?
If there is any spark of human decency left in you, you would dig out that alien transmitter from your frontal lobe with a pair of common household pliers and take out an ad in the next to last page of every paper written in backwards script proclaiming that the international Martian-Zionist-Commonwealth conspiracy no longer controls your thoughts. But you are dead, spiritually, emotionally and intellectually dead.
As I write these words, I can only imagine what horrors you and your alien puppet masters are plotting together and what you will commit to justify my extermination. For you must know that I have stumbled onto your plot and that you must terminate my existence or risk me exposing you to the world for the monster that you are? A massive conspiracy with its roots in every European capitol. The diversion of my mail for several days? Perhaps a hypodermic needle used to inject dihydrogen monoxide into my soymilk?
Or perhaps I will slay you first, committing that terrible deed and taking your life. The last thought on my mind, is keeping the promise I made to Paine as he lay there, the draino eating out his guts. My cat shall be avenged!
Mr. McDougal’s neighbor has at yet to respond to this letter in any way. Should this state of affairs continue, Mr. McDouglas wishes to state that he will no longer be responsible for his actions.