If you want interaction and involvement, you play by my rules. I am happy to repulse and offend you; I don't care, I hate all people - or to give it its proper name, I am. I just want to be left alone to listen to Radiohead, Slipknot and Brahms' Hungarian Dances: they're the only ones who understand the real me, the me I want to be but can't be because not everything is perfect with my life. Oh the pain. Oh the suffering. Oh the need to be funny by being sordid. How you can get involved: (women can't play because when I think of all the pain and suffering in my life, I realise that approximately 50% of all suffering originating from humans has come from women. Bitches). ...what we're gonna do here is play a version of the Biscuit Game, but adapt it to this wonderful world of the internet, where 14 year old boys can download the latest Radiohead, Slipknot and Brahms' Hungarian Dance tracks whilst furtively masturbating to pictures of Janeane Garofolo's head superimposed on the body of some ugly slut with breasts the size, shape and texture of pudding bowls (including the little ridge along the top or side, dependent on the angle at which you're looking at it).
The Biscuit Game is a game played by 90% of boys when growing up - those were the statistics I was quoted; I played so as not to feel left out. Last person to ejaculate on a biscuit has to eat it. Those are the rules. That's it. No clever tactics, no complicated rules to counteract the obvious benefits of drawing the Prophetess, just last to finish loses. Generations of young men ruined the lives of generations of young women because they didn't like custard creams.
The worldwide synchronisation for a real-time online version that sticks to the rule of the original is a little unfair on those in the less good time-zones. Let's up the stakes: 24 hours. Every single one of you ('cept women) must place a biscuit in an envelope. The Post Office have ensured that I am legally obligated to request your envelopes are waterproofed, perhaps by using an envelope lined with bubble wrap; if you choose to ignore this information my obligation has been fulfilled and those fucking postmen get everything they deserve. You have 24 hours to saturate the biscuit as much as possible; tests by our team of elitist scientists will ensure that no other substances are used. Same scientists will also weigh all your offerings, with the producer of the lightest biscuit after a day of thinking about ex-girlfs receiving all offerings for their delectation.
Friday November 29th 2000 has been chosen as the date for this experiment in multinational ejaculation, to coincide with the meeting in Vienna of the greatest living gondoliers the world has ever seen since the really great ones died. If you managed to postmark your vote for the Florda election, then you'll manage fine here. Any retards who can't get to the Post Office on time will have something nasty happen to them. I haven't thought what it is yet, but you go up to your room and wait, and when I decide what'll happen to you, rest assured you'll be the fourth to know after I've discussed it with your mother and your little brother.
Send all your semen-soaked biscuits to:
Jerome David Salinger
That weird town in upstate New York (ask friendly postal worker for directions; they're always happy to help direct people to old moany dicks who think that hiding away and listening to Radiohead, Slipknot and Brahms' Hungarian Dances somehow makes them interesting, and more importantly sells more books).
New York
New York
New York
USA (Yankee Infidel Oppressors)
YKK (zip code).
If I don't die soon I never will.