Dear Donald, Kim, Vladimir and others,
I am writing to your parents regarding the bully tactics and macho posturing you seem to be engaging in while playing in the sandpit. This unacceptable behaviour has to STOP before someone gets hurt.
It seems to me that the sand pit is large enough for you and all the other children, but you seem to want to claim bits of it for yourself. The petty bickering and labelling bits of play equipment “mine” is tiring, but the threats to lob projectiles at each other has wider safety implications I can no longer overlook.
We have tried timeout, handshaking seems not sincere and meetings seem a waste of time as you seen intent on name-calling so, in a last ditch effort, I am appealing to your common sense. Failing that I will roll up a newspaper and give you all a good thwap.
Should the spit hit the fan, and some dumb f*ck lobs the first projectile, I would guess that you will all join in the shit fight. For the couple of minutes you congratulate yourselves on this retaliation (I mean he started it, right?) you will finally have a chance to consider what you have done. You will be making it impossible for anyone to play there again. Ever.
Enough is enough.
I am avoiding the news at the moment, with world leaders posturing at each other, a bunch of lunatics in charge of launch codes on all sides, it seems to me that we are sliding towards making the world a perfect place for this little guy:
Why a cockroach today? There is LOTS of documentary evidence that these critters, largely unchanged since prehistoric times, are the survivors of full-scale thermo-nuclear war. I for one am NOT ready to hand the planet over to them – how about you?
Folded from a brown square of hand made washi, it creeps me out to hold it. The design is brutal, genius and has taken me a while to complete. While folding I got to thinking about things, the more I thought about stuff, the angrier I got. Sorry.