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More Open Letters from the Author of Open Letter to America from a Canadian

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.

Letter 1:


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.

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