And we're sick of it. So we're calling you out.
You're supposed to be advanced. You're supposed to be SUPERPOWERS. You're supposed to be modern! You're failing!
First, Transnapastain. We've been allies for centuries. We've sold you weapons since stabbing people with pointy things was the “in” thing. We've gone from the abacus to the quantum computer, and we've always valued the ties that bind. Your support in the Seabelt is integral to the economic projections of the Republic, and we don't want to downplay that.
But.
The hats. Really? The fucking hats? We've built a chart for your rank structure, based on the sheer size of the headdress. We've determined that the beanie with a propeller stands for a police officer, and that the rotating wedding cake is for the Lord Proctor (does it play Gloria? Do the little figurines dance?), but who the hell wears the motorized fez?
And on the religion. We're sick of getting “saved” every time we travel into your governmental buildings. “Yes, yes, we accept cyber Jebus and all that.” Every god damned time. You hear that? We just said GOD DAMNED. NOTICE THE SUDDEN LACK OF LIGHTNING! You know where we go to get saved? THE SUPERMARKET. All the savings we can handle.
And the gift baskets. We have fourteen fucking warehouses full of the damn things. We tried turning them into fruit smoothies, but we couldn't drink them all without getting toxic ice cream headaches from the poisoned fucking fruit. WATER PURIFICATION! IT'S FOR MORE THAN JUST RELIGION! TRY IT!
Whoa, wasn't trying to offend, sorry. Please, don't throw us in your damn under-cities. Yes, we understand that no one ever leaves because they're “so happy down there”. We also know that when the bullshit is deep enough to swim through, the smell will kill you.
And bridges are for cars, not to demonstrate
Oh, and you're welcome for saving your heads of state. Some of them. Hell, we can't even tell who's who over there. How many parallel structures do you have? Forty? You know what's fucking wonderful? A government structure that doesn't require seven pages of flowcharts and a fucking witch doctor to decode. You're welcome.
Now, onto the next. Nailiak. Oh, Nailiak. The green jewel of the Directorate. Verdant forests and billowing fields, tilled by the loving hands of billions of terrified slaves. Yes, we know you call them “citizens”, but when the average cause of death is “displeased the dread lord Kailian”, we can't help but arrive at some stunning fucking conclusions.
And the name? You named your country after yourself, spelled backwards? Cute. You know, we still have records that have the true name of your nation, [REFERENCE DELETED].
Oh, and Mr. Kailian? Could we request something?
Could you please stop fucking killing all of your ambassadors? I know you need to make a dead-body mosaic or some other bullshit, but we like to have steady relations with other ministers. It helps to know each other, and we never know when the guy who's been sent over here for TWO WEEKS will get called home to inspect a fertilizer plant.
So, Darth Kailian, we recognize that you're a crazy son of a bitch, but could you dial it back to nine or so for a few months? We're trying to land the Olympics, and we really don't need to have another massacre because someone took a pruning shears to the wrong fucking flower.
And don't think we've forgotten about the Confederacy.
We don't know how you keep finding more trees to log over there. We'd have thought you ran out after the great clear-cut of 1990, or after President Jim-Bob Bobby-Jim blew up his “Mega-Still Emporium” a year after and lit half the goddamn place on fire.
But you know what, we really don't care about that. Everyone has their own thing. Some people juggle geese.
Just please join the twenty-first fucking century. It's called a transistor. It's not the devil's sign. Maybe, after we get over this delicate discussion, we can show you the microprocessor.
No, that's not a come on. Please stop giving us the lazy-eye stare. It's really weird.
Further question? Do you have any dogs in your country with MORE THAN THREE LEGS? That aren't named “tripod”?
And please, stop bringing up UFO defense at every summit meeting. We're all tired of hearing about your Foreign Secretary got “picked on right up, dangummit, out near the baker place” and how “them little gray aliens” sodomized him for hours.
Look, you know what hovers in place and shines bright lights? HELICOPTERS. On that note, Channel Seven wants their news chopper back, so please stop showing off the logo from the fuselage as proof of alien abductions.
And as for your foreign minister? Those weren't aliens. He got lost in the Vice President's goat farm, and apparently, your VP has those animals TERRIFYINGLY well trained for his “after school” activities.
How do we know? Satellites.
How do those work? Well, it's starts with the earth being round-
Hey, put down that pitchfork! We were just kidding! Satellites work because of voodoo! Voodoo and moonshine and the love of one sibling for another, just like your uncle-daddy taught you. Hey, you know what? I heard that Nailiak decided to plant un-log-able trees in your country. You should totally go over there and cut his down. He also funds the aliens who poke you in the middle of the night. Tell 'em Transnapastain sent you, because God willed it.
In short, fuck you all.
