Dear Crooks,

(Including skallywags, hoodlums, ruffians, and whomever else this fateful letter may concern,)

It is with grave solemnity and solemn gravity weighing upon my tremulous bosom that I am compelled to write this letter. It is a perilous action I here undertake, which I nevertheless fear to be necessary in order to implore the sound adjustment of your better natures.

The writing of complaint letters is by no means an easy business. Notwithstanding, it is a responsibility I have taken upon myself, growing as I have in popularity and expertise over the years. It was my hand, for instance, which penned the notorious affidavit of George Soper, (a letter he then folded delicately and placed into his front pocket for later procurement) in which he firmly but genteely accused poor Mary Mallon of asymptomatically and quite unintentionally I'm sure (as the letter tactfully reiterated) spreading Typhoid Fever relentlessly into the trembling mouths of the masses. When dealing with matters of such potent delicacy, I'm sure you understand, it is of utmost importance to ensure that the accused reader does not feel unduly reprimanded, even when they do deserve to rot in all manners of foul sludge and fetid excrement as hardly-adequate penance for the plagues they've inflicted upon society...

Don't get me wrong gentle readers, purloiners, pilferers, filchers and snitches, we're all human here. All filthy vermin and pious pustules alike. Indeed, we are nothing but vile hypocrites at heart. Every one of us. I too have been tempted by the supremacy of the greedy bastard party. You might not know it from my dainty handwriting, but I in fact attained my beginnings in this burgeoning industry of complaints whilst writing itineraries for a criminal mastermind. Oh yes. No one is immune to the fluffy inducements and carnal lusts of brazen law-and-order shirking. It is not my intention to shame you, fellow scoundrels, only to help you to understand that there is a better way forward.

In my illustrious career as a professional complainer, I have complained about almost everything under the sun;

Talentless bassoonists and the rise of phony Buddhism in the tourist industry,

Dodgy saddlemaking and the way it effects the price of tea in Caracas...

Everything...

from grainy raisin manufacturing

to spotty yurt construction-instruction-manuals,

the successful cryogenic preservation of presidents,

the persistence of strawberry-flavored soda, even after it's proven influence on violent crime,

low flow spoeds in axial flow turbines and the concurent frequancy of speling errers in importent dokumunts pertainung too marshian interloping tecnologies.

purportedly backwards-counting odometers which actually count forwardly,

Insolent Rumba-dancers and their inability to structure their barbaric gyrations around the timeless beauty and grace of Tchaikovsky's 5th Symphony,

The extreme amount of ass-kissery which must be required to be permitted to bring the mass-murdering technology of a thermos into a regular gunfight...

These are only a few of the many extraneous examples of what can go horribly (and often quasi-intentionally) wrong in the average human lifespan. Indeed these are merely a minuscule sample of the egregious injustices which have been deemed worthy of my skillful complaining. It is an utter disgrace, I am sure that we can all agree, how frequently my services have been required.

At this juncture I am sure you have guessed the covertly hinted-at purpose of this; my final letter. Yes, it is after this full life of passionate disdain and careful duress, a life of eloquent courtesy and of turbulent address, I find myself at the end of the fabled rainbow. I had, until my arrival in this abysmal locale, been under the youthful impression, as many of you have been or are currently also under, that the end of the rainbow supposedly contains a great many golden treasures collected in sacred chamber-pots wielded by jolly leprechauns, happily frolicking in green fields of gaiety...

Alas, it is not so. There is no gold at the end of the rainbow. Only starchy sheets stained with the soiled reputations of thousands upon thousands of incontinent wretches who befouled this region before me, demeaning nurses administering discomforting suppositories, and painful memories of better times.

Thus, I have decided to join the ranks sinners for once and for all, and commit the dastardly atrocity of doing myself in. Please accept my fervent apologies for all the numerous inconveniences my heartfelt admonishments have caused over the years. I wish you the fondest of farewells.

With sincerest condolences for robbing you of my continued existence forthwith,

Yours, etc,

Mabel Smellyweather.

Building a yurt these days,

is no easy thing,

sure the cyborgs pitch in,

they can help with the lilacs,

those lilacs.

those lilacs!!!

i should have listened to the Rumba!

she knew of much more than sweeping.

lo, she gave me hints, as she brushed,

the servos,

sounding like the second movment,

but i stared at the screen then,

even when she tried,

to spell the coming doom.

i thought it's an advertisement.

not fair of me to close my mind.

oh, and you might say,

thou skeptic,

what has that got to do,

with the price of tea in Caracs?

i'll tell you, so, it has much bearing:

yurts are the barometer.

every venture is messured,

'gainst that ancient art.

saddlemaking, teamongering,

itinerary writing and other,

miscellaneous secraterial work,

all are compared to or beneath.

and the Rumba knew that all too well.

and so, i must make amends,

i must erect a worthy apology.