we of the Sovereign Republic of Claude le Monde
having grown in both numbers and awesomeness since coming to power
have decided to expand our territory
and while we certainly have no goals in either prejudice or eugenics
we hereby declare war upon the following parties: Ahem:
• Anyone who has gotten a boy/girlfriend and disappeared for the duration of the relationship, only to resurface upon its demise, all "So, uh...how's it going?";
• anyone who thinks riding a motorcycle makes him/her awesome;
• anyone who hates on the Midwest. jealousy looks ugly on you;
• anyone who thinks having a warner brothers cartoon character as tattoo or pickup-truck decal is cool (because what is that?!);
• anyone who has tied him/herself to bitter memories and wallowy victim solitude rather than live fully among the living (& by way of persuasion we simply enquire as to whether your precious ghosts are good or fun at cooking, dancing, or fucking. no? then you are being a stupid stupidhead);
• anyone who thinks violent pranks on wildlife are a good idea;
• anyone who has taken anything from children, refused to pick up their dog poop, or stolen a car stereo;
• anyone who persists in doing something to, with, against, or involving someone else, that they wouldn't openly admit;
• anyone who falls anywhere into the Republic's definition of LAME as noted in proviso 4.1B.
4.1B The Republic's Definition of Lame:
1. lacking self-awareness. 2. lacking the motivation or desire to change for the better. 3. being weak, unresolved, easy-way-out-seeking, or cheap. 4. wanting to disappear so as not to take responsibility for the awesome shreadly mangled glitzy carnival that is living.
we conduct war differently in the Republic
for instance your prisoners will be subjected to harsh measures
such as being fed lots of carbs
encouraged to perform karaoke
and wrapped in pastel afghans and given one month to get over it.
if you don't get over it by then, we'll make you take a big drink of Coke
and then tell you an ass-destroying joke.
how're your nostrils feeling now?
and if you are one of the assholes who feeds alka-seltzer to seagulls
well those seagulls would like to have a word with you, Sonny Jim.
if you are hurting yourself we will bind you up in Band-Aids and Neosporin.
we have police dogs that will kiss it and make it better.
they will fetch the good ideas you once shot down
and lay your dreams back at your feet, still breathing.
we will put toy horsie heads in your beds, saying
"this is a message from don claudelemonde. come on outside
'cause we got tin-can stilts and i stole two beers from my dad's fridge."
we have a player piano that transmits voices from the dead
they say "we missed every chance we were given.
wake up and smell the soy bacon, bitches. it's party time."
listen: if anything i am saying makes something within you
rise up and heave like a counterbouncing trampoline or rad skateboard trick
then fear not, i say
for you are already in the army
so go get in line for your water balloons and helper monkeys
and if you fail to take this declaration seriously, that's fine
but you're gonna feel fucking stupid when we pop out of the bushes with creampies, all
"Yargh! It's the Republic! Tag no tagbacks, olley olley ocksenfree! Motherfuckers!"
we have already captured your flag and destroyed it for it was an I'M WITH STUPID t-shirt.
we have already torn down your statues for they were depictions of Richard Burton, Jackson Pollock, and other famous assholes who died sad and stupidly.
we have already recorded over all the cassettes of your anthems for they were Wonderwall as recorded by Morrissey and we are really past that shit now.
the Republic advises your immediate surrender.
our aid workers are standing by with fish tacos and impromptu massages.
come home. get prodigal. give in to your life.