Sleep. Go on, sleep. Rest easy. I want your muscles relaxed so I can peel them cleanly off your bones. Then I’m gonna cut your bicuspids out and carve the Greek alphabet into the softest part of your belly. Afterward I’ll sit you on my deli meat slicer and make myself an ass and Swiss cheese club sandwich. Or maybe I’ll do that first-I get excited in the moment and who knows what sick inspiration will strike me like a ball-peen hammer strikes a fingertip that’s been tied off and isn’t getting any circulation? Point is, I’m pretty sure I have enough syringes of adrenaline to keep you from passing out while I burn a hole in your foot with an acetylene torch. Sweet dreams.
Are you scared yet? Uh, of course not. I’m just a darkly imaginative dude with an Internet connection.
It’s not like I came by your house and hurled condoms full of horse blood at your door. Hell, I don’t even know where you live! I never bothered to find out, because look I am really busy threatening people with grisly death over the Internet. Have you tried this? Because, man, is it easy, and, man, does nobody call the cops on you. Just ask New Jersey’s Bergen County Teachers Union. The president of the organization of child educators (among others that said the same thing of Obama) recently sent an e-mail to their 17,000 members that complained bitterly of Governor Chris Christie’s school budget cuts and went on to pray for his swift demise:
“Dear lord, this year you have taken away my favorite actor, Patrick Swayze, my favorite actress, Farrah Fawcett, my favorite singer, Michael Jackson, and my favorite salesman, Billy Mays. I just wanted to let you know that Chris Christie is my favorite governor.”
Christie called this kind of talk “beyond the pale,” and I have to agree. OWN YOUR BLOODLUST, TEACHERS. Don’t just hope that your enemies are stricken down by an anal cocaine cancer overdose. Put your nonexistent money where your reeking coffeehole is. You’re gonna mark Christie for death and not mention how you plan to siphon off all his blubber and start an Inuit restaurant? You’re not gonna address how he’ll wind up in a Looney Tunes perdition where he’ll be force-fed Dunkin’ Donuts by an ensemble of naked Jon Corzines until he starts crapping White Castle sliders? For shame, Jersey.
The worst part? THEY APOLOGIZED. I guess they were afraid that when God did shake off his hangover and get around to killing this penny-pincher with an overdue heart attack, the digital trail would lead right back to them. Which reminds me-and New York Post commenters should take note-death threats are supposed to be NON-TRACEABLE. You know how, in movies, the kidnappers/terrorists/homicidal maniacs always write a disturbing letter using letters cut out from newspapers and Playboy? It’s not because of an abiding appreciation for pop art collage, though I’ll be damned if Warhol couldn’t teach you a thing or five about freaking out the establishment.
Or how about, instead of this pansy cyberbullying, you pick up the fucking phone for once. DO NOT TEXT, YOU NUTLESS SLOTH. Do you think the Unabomber texted? Texting is for shameful booty calls and the people who rig “American Idol.” No one can hear you breathing moistly over a text. Put some effort into it.
When I was a junior in high school, we got phoned-in bomb threats so terrifying that our principal bypassed the fire alarm and got on the P.A. to directly scream at us that we would all perish in a flaming hailstorm of outdated textbooks if we did not EVACUATE, LIKE, RIGHT NOW. Students trampled each other to get out. And you know what? Whoever was calling in these threats kept doing it-for an ENTIRE YEAR-without getting caught. We had a “Bomb Threats” section in the yearbook, that’s how much we admired this psycho. (Yes, this was New Jersey as well.) Whoever it was even began to call at the exact same time (ten minutes into 6th period) every day, which was both professional and unsettling. You don’t let up after one threat, people; you keep a steady torrent coming, and capitalize on accumulated dread. And Tea Partiers, don’t think you’re off the hook just because you chucked a single brick through a congressperson’s window-if that shit didn’t have a human ear tied to it, it doesn’t count.
If you can’t even be bothered to stalk your targets in the real world, or mail them Polaroids of your self-inked and still-bleeding tattoo of their crossed-out name (spelled correctly, asshole), or sneak into their homes disguised as a meter reader so that you can plant crushed rodents in their medicine cabinets, then just forget it. We’d all rather be harassed by someone who cares enough to take it up a notch from email.
This does not constitute legal advice and Miles Klee is not an attorney, nor is he your attorney.