and are providing a steeper incline for her than her stupid NordicTrack ever did.
She misses Hubby,
her curtain climbers,
and their matching pure breed dogs bigger and dumber than trash trucks.
Imma give her back her glasses, poor thing.
If you want your stooge, the bank manager,
back the way we found her, you will publish our manifesto.
I want the New York Times on the line,
not your wind-up doll of a hostage negotiator.
Listen close. Hear that?
One less loan officer in the world.
Imma shed a great big tear.
You have an hour, one hour exactly to publish our manifesto.
We want to see it as we wrote it,
not redacted and full of ads to subscribe to the fucking NYT.
Our Swedish friend was here with us,
and suggested some edits.
Our Swedish friend is the one we sent outside to kneel on the pavement
with his hands tied and the bomb belt on.
Please shoot him.
Imma decline his edits, and yours. We good on that?
We are sick of:
tiki torch wing nuts
It's time to bring some order to the chaos, so publish our manifesto.
In the New York Times.
Within the hour.
Or imma go off.
We would hate for your stooge, the bank manager,
to die because we overfed her, poor little goldfish.
We started with a rag, but she's still hungry, I can tell.
Our California friend is calming her
by reading her the manifesto.
Check it out while we're waiting, and tell your SWAT team of armed editors
to stand down
or we all go up.
Check it out and let me know what you think.
Come close, whisper me your thoughts,
and I'll respond, candidly and strictly entre nous, with my Kalashinikov.
Imma woman; I think and think and think and think and think.
By the time I act,
you'll never see it coming.
for Bjorn's "manifesto" challenge at Toads.