Glenn Beck: I Will Fight You

Dear Glenn Beck,

Greetings, neckless blowhard. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, best selling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and rainbow belt in the ancient martial art of Fung Dong.

Frankly, I think you are adorable. Your misguided, delusional worldview is precious. Every time you crack open your mindless Mormon craw, it reminds me of the time my nephew passed wind during Thanksgiving dinner, explaining afterward, "I made a phoot-phoot."

Delightful!

Unfortunately, I will now have to fight you. It's just how it has to be. You pander to fear and you trade in tired stereotypes and outdated theorems. Your beliefs are rooted in blatant falsehoods and organized bigotry. And, frankly, I just don't like the cut of your jib. So, I am forced to punch you square in said jib and plant my foot in your ass - the source of most of your limp theories.

This physical challenge should come as a compliment. Normally, my cyber-missives and hollow threats are reserved for local Dallas-Fort Worth personalities. That you, a national figure of dubious origin, have fallen into my cross hairs is something of an anomaly. Still, this honor comes with a price. I will beat you senseless and it shouldn't take long. Not because I am particularly threatening, but because you are already free and clear of any discernible strain of sense.

I will beat you. You will be beaten. I will hit you with my fists and you will cry from your vagina. Yes, I am claiming that you possess a vagina. Prove me wrong. Mind you, if you e-mail me a picture of your genitals, vaginal or otherwise, I will report you to the appropriate authorities.

So, prepare to have the stuffing beaten out of you, Glenn Beck. I will hit you and I will hit you hard. I will hit you so hard, you will lose your job, you will end up on the street, and you will wish for universal public health care. I will hit you so hard you will forget how to speak English, only to then be identified as an illegal alien and deported to your country of origin, Dickface Island.

I will hit you so hard you will bleed from your face and your ass and your face's ass and the ass of your face. I will hit you and I will hit you and I will hit you. Then I will put you in a car, instruct you to drive to an undisclosed location, then when you arrive at said location I will pull you from your car and beat you some more.

I will punch you in the stomach and I will kick you in the temples. I will punch you and kick you and kick you and punch you. You will be punched. You will be kicked.

Then, I will force you to read a 4th grade social studies text book. I will make you memorize the Constitution of these United States of America. Then, once you have been enlightened as to the true nature of our forefathers' vision, I will fuck you up old school, carefully placing your head against a street curb and then smashing your skull with the stern, downward motion of my foot. You will be curb stomped and you will be curb stomped by me.

Then, if you survive the aforementioned curb stomping, I will stuff you into a circus acrobat's cannon and launch you several feet into the air. You will land in a vacant parking lot, where I will then retrieve your limp, shattered, battered body and proceed to smash every inch of your frame with an aluminum baseball bat.

I will then pack your jellied remains into a mason jar, take a cab to the Fort Worth Zoo, and feed your liquid remnants to a lion or gorilla or crocodile or some such animal. The animal will then digest and excrete you and then, as excrement, you will serve a dual purpose as natural vegetative fertilizer and sustenance for insects.

I will then delete your Wikipedia page and hire a team of Internet hackers to commandeer your website and redirect it to the fan site of noted guitar virtuoso Jeff Beck.

Then I will sex your wife into another dimension because she's way too hot for a pin-dick like you. And she will thank me for raging her nethers with my throbbing meat wand.

After I have done all of this, whatever is left of you will thank me for the pleasure of being on the receiving end of such a glorious, unforgiving beatdown. And I will say, "You are quite welcome."

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther.

Not a Good Day

Dear Tim Ryan,

Good day to you, early morning news broadcaster. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and "news junkie." Also, I am quite severely addicted to illegal narcotics.

It is a sad, sad, moment indeed, not unlike slavery, forced child labor, the Holocaust, and the final episode of After M*A*S*H all rolled into one. Today is a day that will live in sorrow-soaked infamy, as the FOX Good Day family wishes a fond farewell to your co-anchor and friend, the lovely and talented Megan Henderson.

Everyone has their favorite "Megan Moments" and I am no exception. Who didn't love the time she donned a string bikini, slathered herself in cocoa butter and challenged CBS-11's Kristine Kahanek to a wrestling match in a kiddie pool full of tapioca pudding?

Who couldn't help but smile as they watched Megan and NBC-5 reporter Susy Solis doing body shots off of each other until they both collapsed to the floor of a Dave & Buster's game room in a sexy, sweaty heap?

And how about the time she engaged in a giggly, playful water balloon fight with WFFA's Alexa Conomos, then called Gary Gogill a "walking queef machine" and kicked him square in his dick?

Sure, none of these things ever actually occurred in real life and are only erotic fantasies of my own concoction. Nonetheless, they are vivid memories that I will hold near and dear to both my heart and my penis for years to come.

Fabricated or factual, all we have now are these memories, as Miss Megan is off to La-La Land, where she will deliver morning reports on the latest diarrheal diet fads and luxury house pet accessories to the fine, orange-tinged populace of Los Angeles.

Now we must move on without her. Having heard tell that FOX-5 will not immediately replace Megan, instead supplying you with a rotating cast of co-anchors, I wish to offer my services to you in that regard. Sure, I don't look as hot in a hobble skirt as your old partner. But my inability to harvest boners over the North Texas airwaves is dwarfed by my journalistic professionalism and mastery of pretending that an overtly biased delivery of the news is, in fact, objective reporting.

Nowadays, isn't that what television journalism is really all about? Please allow me to leave you with a little taste of the goods...

Chef Jake shows us how to make dolphin eyeball soup. We'll review the latest frighteningly realistic talking dog movie. How to set a Democrat on fire without leaving any trace evidence. And take our brand new "Are You Fucking Retarded?" quiz. All this and more, tomorrow on Good Day!

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

Alibaster K. Abthernabther's Search for America's Next Huge Douche Hole Tool

Dear Club Purgatory,

Good day to you, fabulous nightclub. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast and executive producer of high quality, basic cable reality programming.

I just wanted to thank you for allowing us to hold our casting auditions this weekend at your fine establishment. I believe this arrangement will be of great mutual benefit.

Rest assured, your association with my groundbreaking new reality show "experiment" secures your spot in pop culture history for centuries to come. Alibaster K. Abthernabther's Search for America's Next Huge Douche Hole Tool is destined to be the hottest show on the television dial, that is, if televisions still had dials on them.

Deciding to launch Alibaster K. Abthernabther's Search for America's Next Huge Douche Hole Tool (heretofore AKA's SFANHDHT) at Club Purgatory was no easy task. There was a huge pool of viable contenders to choose from; hundreds of asininely named lounges, clubs, and bars within the greater DFW area, each brimming with male clientèle possessing absolutely radioactive levels of assfacery and dickholishness.

How will this apply to AKA's SFANHDHT, you ask?

Shut the fuck up, I reply.

First, these gentlemen will face a gauntlet of skanky, skanky skanks rife with venereal disease. Then they will rent out shoddy North Dallas apartments and furnish them with saggy foutons, decorative samurai swords, and ceramic coffee table pumas. They will then be supplied with a bottomless bin of shiny button-up shirts, mega-ultra extreme stiff-hold hair gel, stressed denim jeans, and brightly colored, slatted sunglasses. They will ritually bathe in Axe deodorant body spray. They will be, in a word, irresistible.

We will chose the seven finest dick wrinkles - the creme de la shitty, the douchiest of the douchey, the kings of all cock-facedness - and cast them into a 20-foot dirt pit. Then I will personally douse them with space shuttle fuel and light them on fire.

And they will burn to a crisp and die, their fevered screams unheard, their hollow dreams unrealized.

Then I will pee-pee on their smoldering ashes.

Frankly, the only budget we could secure for this show covered two episode's worth of expenses. So, we figure we do the inital introductory round-up and pick the top, I don't know, 20 or 25 guys in the first episode. Then for the second episode we light them on fire and videotape them burning to their deaths. And I pee on them. It's a budgetary concern more than anything else.

If we secure a decent ratings share with this go-around, we can expect to have the second season of AKA's SFANHDHT airing within about 6 weeks. And, with your blessing, I hope to hold the 2nd annual auditions in Club Purgatory, in recognition of the club's undying dedication to the subhuman chauvinistic desires of the average, everyday douche-whistle.

Kudos to you, douchey nightclub!

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

However, it Would be a Wonderful Name for a Wesley Snipes Film.

Dear Casey E. Thomas II,

Good day to you, president of the Dallas National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, Branch # 6169. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, best-selling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and concerned Caucasian.

It gives me no pleasure to bring to your attention a vile new addition to the meteorological lexicon. They call it “Black Ice.” And this morning it had the entire city in its frosty clutches.

That is, black ice’s frosty clutches had the entire city by the balls. So, you can only imagine how cold those balls were. They were really cold, frosty balls.

Nevertheless! “Black ice” is, in fact, transparent – not black. But who would be afraid of driving on “clear ice” or “invisible ice” or “transparent ice?” No one, that’s who. White America needed a term that would keep drivers on their toes, in fear of a shadowy menace that is out to steal their cars.

But “black ice” isn’t out on a carjacking spree so he can get accepted into a street gang and listen to the new Heavy D & the Boyz compact disk. This “black ice” causes nasty traffic accidents. Well, then why didn’t they just call it “Old Korean Lady Ice?”

I don’t know, sir. I do not know why they didn’t just call it “Old Korean Lady Ice.”

So we shamefully add the phrase “black ice” to a constantly growing heap of ignorant faux-Euro-intellectual garbage verbiage, such as “blackball” and “blacklist,” as otherwise innocent, average words are made evermore sinister when prefaced with the word “black.”

What did the words “ice,” “ball,” and “list” ever do to deserve being saddled with such a devastating prefix? And why did their credit scores each drop 100 points immediately after being blackened-ed?

Sorry, I forgot the rest of that bit. It was either Chris Rocks or Martin Lawrences or Byron Allen or Byron Nelson or one of those other Def Comedy Jam guys.

The pasty underbelly of the extreme Caucasian media underground has deftly inserted the “black ice” phrase into common conversation in a subversive psychological ploy to breed racist ignorance in our nation’s motorists and cross-town commuters. It sickens me. Though it brings me hope.

This bittersweet chocolate irony occurs as our country celebrates the historic inaugural year of President Barack Obama. And I am so sick, but I can only vomit hope.

To quote Heavy D; “Now that we’ve found love, what are we gonna do…with it?”

Yours,

Alibaster K. Abthernabther

...In A Galaxy Far Up Your Ass

Dear Bishop T.D. Jakes,

Good day to you, famous local holy man. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and Starfleet Academy graduate.

You will need to excuse the forthcoming tirade. However, I am exasperated beyond explanation. I have heard all manner of idiotic pablum in my day. I thought that I had, as they say, heard it all. But, oh no. You set that bar to a staggering new low, Bishop Jakes. I am absolutely seething right now.

Everyone - and I mean, everyone - knows that "May the Force be with you" is a quote from the Star Wars films and not, as you stated, a catchphrase from Star Trek. So, I have a few questions for you, good sir.

Were you the victim of a Vulcan mind meld gone awry? Did you have the sense knocked out of you by a Wampa? Or are you simply out of your motherfucking mind?

Had it not occurred to you that you may want to fact check your pre-inaugural church sermon for science fiction factual inaccuracies? Seriously. Get it fucking together.

I'm so upset right now, I could shit Tribbles.

This is a new day, a new age, a new chapter in American history. And you would be hard-pressed to find someone - anyone - who does not know the difference between a Jedi and a Romulan. It is so ingrained in our collective American psyche that I'm not even going to bother hyperlinking the words "Jedi" and "Romulan." Why? Because no one needs to look up either of those things! That's why.

You make me so mad, Bishop Jakes. If you were standing in front of me right now, I'd render you unconscious with a nerve pinch. I would reach over, collect a small swath of your shoulder between my thumb and fingers, and BAM! You would be out like a light; a light that wouldn't know the difference between a Klingon Bird of Prey and an Imperial Start Destroyer if his life depended on it.

I mean, seriously. Fuck!

Even my great grandmother, the sainted Aloise Abthernabther, could tell you that Gene Roddenburry dreamt up the miracle of transporter technology, while George Lucas was the one who popularized the concept of spacecraft hyperspace trajection. Of course, Star Trek did explore the possibilities of subspace travel, which is similar to the theory of hyperspace, only it involves navigating through layers of spacetime using "warp speeds" of varying degrees, while the inhabitants of Lucas' Star Wars universe make lightspeed jumps within preprogrammed hyperspace routes that send them hurdling through the galaxy at a near unfathomable rate.

But I digress. The question remains: Are you mentally deficient or just motherfucking retarded in the brains?

Get it together, T.D. Jakes. I am so motherfucking angry at you right now.

Motherfuckfuckfuck!!!

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

Dog Will Hunt

Dear Avi Adelman,

Good day to you, fierce neighborhood watchdog. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and concerned citizen.

First, allow me to congratulate you on your Barking Dogs website, an invaluable local resource for persnickety voyeurism and all-purpose nosiness. For years, I was forced to physically transport myself to the Lowest Greenville Avenue area in order to witness the debauched displays of human intoxication that you so dutifully catalog. Now, thanks to your sly implementation of home video recording technology and internet broadcasting, I may enjoy such ribald people watching from the comfort of my home office.

However, I am writing not only to praise these efforts, but also to make you aware of a disturbing new scourge that demands your immediate attention. I am sure you are already quite aware of what I am referring to.

In a word: Minotaur. Part man. Part bull. All attitude. This fantastical creature of Greek mythology has been running rampant all over Greenville Avenue, from Belmont to Ross, for the last few weeks. Once housed in the confines of King Minos' vast labyrinth, this ferocious beast has now staked his claim to one of Dallas' most historic neighborhoods and nightspots and he shows no signs of stopping.

Trouble began during the Christmas holiday, when the Minotaur got into a lethal confrontation with several members of the East Side Chicken Chimichangas street gang in the Taco Cabana parking lot. Words were exchanged and threats were tossed about. Before law enforcement could arrive, the mighty Minotaur brutally beheaded several cholos with a single swing of his bloodstained battleaxe, and then returned to his cave in an enchanted forest where he bedded an El Centro interior design major by the name of Ch'Lise.

Two nights later, dressed in pre-stressed denim jeans and a shiny, striped shirt with a fleur-de-lis graphic printed asymmetrically across the left shoulder, the Minotaur was spotted at the Sugar Shack downing Jägerbombs. No sooner had the lounge's P.A. speakers begin blaring a fantastic mash-up of "Do Da Stanky Legg" and "Unskinny Bop," when an SMU fraternity boy started heckling the dapper beast. Within mere seconds, the Minotaur tore off one of the fraternity fellow's arms and planted it firmly in the lad's rectal cavity. He was later seen in the alleyway next to the Billiard Bar, going down on a University of Dallas interior design major named Shon'Royale.

These are just two incidents out of dozens that have occurred, quite frankly, on your watch. And while you were neither elected nor appointed to this watchdog status that you seem to enjoy so much, you deftly nominated yourself. And now true duty calls. No longer will you be able to simply videotape drunkards, harlots and thugs, mocking their inebriated rage from behind a video camera. Now you will have to take action.

You must battle the Minotaur, Avi. Unsheathe your broadsword. Don your walrus tusk helmet and your trusty loincloth fashioned from unicorn pelt. Behead the Minotaur and defiantly urinate into his severed esophagus. Smite the beast with pure might and carve his gargantuan skull into a victory goblet.

Then, and only then, will the proud people of Greenville Avenue be able to reclaim the night.

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

The Eye of the Blog Holder

Dear Liskula Cohen,

Good day to you, litigious Canadian supermodel. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, best-selling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and attractive person of mind-blowing proportions.

Let me begin by extending an empathetic hand, a sympathetic ear, and an understanding, half-soft penis. I know what it is like to be hated for being beautiful. The ridicule it draws is obviously rooted in envy, bitterness, and untainted bitch-wickedness.

We the beautiful should not allow the jealous to hide behind internet anonymity. So, I applaud your efforts pursuing legal action against the filthy ass malinger who used the sacred acres of cyberspace to publicly denounce you as a "hag," a "skank," a "bitch" and a "skank bitch."

As a fashion model, you know that image is everything. And as a skank bitch, you know that nothing undermines that image like someone publicly stating that you are a skank bitch.

But you must realize, this is not about you or how skanky you are or how big of a bitch you may be or even how much of a huge skanky bitch skank you are. This is about someone wanting attention. Congratulations, Liskula. You've given them what they wanted.

Allow me to demonstrate. Let's take Ann Coulter. She is a despicable, wrong-headed cunt who needs to have some sense fucked into her. Do I know this to be fact? No, of course not. Can scientists prove it to be true? Yes, of course. But more importantly, by using the phrases "Ann Coulter" and "cunt" in the same sentence, I have guaranteed that my insightful and incredibly popular website, From the Desk of Alibaster K. Abthernabther, will see an increase in web traffic by about 36% within the next 72 hours.

Is this fair? Is this right? Do I care? No, no, and no.

Also, Ann Coulter is a sorority house Skeletor with a thumb-sized clit who can only achieve orgasm by repeatedly listening to the terrified screams of Holocaust victims.

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

Me Yell!!!

Alibaster K. Abthernabther is enjoying a prolonged holiday on the Canary Islands. In his absence, we present a replacement column written by Kalibaster A. Kabthernabther, his intellectually challenged doppelganger from a parallel dimension.

Dear Jerry Jones,

Hello, person. Me Kalibaster A. Kabthernabther. Me like crayons, spiders, and french fried potatoes. Me also watch and like football. Me yell at TV screen when Cowboys no win game. Me also yell when they do win. Me yell! Football!!!

Me have questions for you, Jerry Jones. Please help and answer.

Why do eyes and head hurts when me stare into sun for long time? Me like look directly into sun. Me no like headaches. But me still stare into sun because me like.

Me yell at sun!

Ice cream is taste good. Me likes ice cream so much, me put ice cream in pants and make love to ice cream because me want make ice cream babies. So far, me no able to produce babies of ice cream. But me still try. Can you help me make ice cream babies, Jerry Jones?

Why is sky blue? Why does sky no answer when I yell at it? These are questions that make me no sleep at the nighttime. What makes you no sleep, Jerry Jones?

One time me eat tire. It make me very sick and I could not yell for many, many days.

Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near, Jerry Jones? Follow-up question, why do birds suddenly disappear when me put them in me mouth and eat them whole?

Me want blueberries!!!

Me on westbound train to Chicago leaving Boston at 2:45 p.m. traveling at 200 miles per hour. You on eastbound train to Chicago leaving Los Angeles at 7:15 a.m. traveling at 175 miles per hour. Was I adopted?

Jerry Jones, I will fight you with a sword! Name place! Name time! You bring sword for you. Me only have one sword for me. Me yell while swinging swords!!!

Can you feel the love tonight?

Yours,

Kalibaster A. Kabthernabther

Art From the Heart

Dear Art Conspirators,

Good day to you, creative do-gooders. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, bestselling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and philanthropic patron of the arts.

It pleases me greatly to see that this coming Saturday will bring about the fruition of your fourth annual Art Conspiracy fundraiser, benefiting Preservation LINK, Inc. and featuring 150 local artistes, 3 bands, 2 deejays, and a cornucopia of artistic bohemians clad in a colorful assortment of knit scarves and caps.

Unfortunately, I will be unable to attend the event, as it coincides with a court ordered vasectomy procedure. My legal staff advises that I do not discuss the particulars of what led to such a debasing judicial decree. I can, however, say this: Alpacas do not enjoy, nor do they tolerate, forced romance.

While I am unable to be there in person, below I have included a number of digitally rendered, original art pieces that may be printed out and auctioned off to benefit your cause.

Feel free to mount and display them as you wish. Certificates of authenticity to follow.

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther

BIG BOOBED PIGEON IN TANK TOP

SHARKDOG

UNICORN GHOST AT SUNSET

TIM ROGERS AND ROBERT WILONSKY: LOVE BROTHERS OF THE APOCALYPSE

Alibaster K. Abthernabther vs. The Internets

Dearest web log readers,

Please enjoy the following excerpt from a book that I may or may not be working on, entitled Alibaster K. Abthernabther vs. The Internets.

In this piece I am corresponding with a gentleman on the Facebooks who had sent me a blind invitation to join a group of some sort. I'm still not quite sure what it was about.

Now, I can understand why you may approach reading this exchange with a certain amount of skepticism as to its authenticity. While I do have a rather rampant penchant for colorful hyperbole, I assure you that this dialogue took place with an actual person, and no words (or spelling and grammar, for that matter) have been altered, with the exception of the gentleman's name. Enjoy!

***

Jan,

I am currently reviewing my invitation to join your Facebook group, "Road map to building a group list."

You will have to excuse my ignorance, but how exactly is this group list supposed to work? I know you probably can't go into too much detail, but generally speaking, what are the mechanics of this process?

Also, I am thinking about starting an Ace of Base fan club group. Would you be interested in joining? Then I could join your group and you could join my group and we could have that many more friends. A little tit for tat.

Just let me know. Thanks!

Yours,

Alibaster K. Abthernabther

I am interested in building group list for those who are interested in building their own group list. I can share with you all the little tips and that. As for biz, like I pointed out, it is up to mutual interest to join force together. I am not interested in promoting something that I have no interest in, and so are you, right. The primary goal is to build all the members' group list, then if there is something that catches my eyes, I would go for it, you don't even have to persuade me to do that. So be a member first, then we could have cook a real meal to share with each other.

Jan Cheung

Jan,

Thank you so much for your immediate reply. This sounds exciting! However, there are still a few things I'm not clear on.

Am I to understand that the group list is intended for people who are building their own group lists? Is it a group of people sharing their own lists? Or is it a list of people sharing their own groups? And what are we to promote? Are we promoting a service or are we servicing a promotion? Please advise.

Since you mention it, what would cause something to catch your eye? I mean, any good business knows how to cater to their client, so how should I cater to you? Are you my client or am I your client? Or are we a group of shared clients exchanging lists of promotional services? I'm still a bit confused.

Also, I could not gauge your interested in my Ace of Base fan club group from your reply. Could you please clarify?

I look forward to cooking a shared meal with you soon, Jen!

Yours,

Alibaster K. Abthernabther

the idea is a self help program to enlarge the size of friend group. when u have that, u really would not care if u have to go single gunned or have a gang to back u up (if u could get enough interest in others to do that, it means u r either very salesman quality or u have a good product or both). I naturally want to promote my own interest (products and program), but that is 2nd issue. i want to build up a core group that contains individuals who have their own huge groups. So after joining the group, u feel u have a good product to promote to your fellow member, then go ahead & do that. and if members think u have a product that they like, they would in turn invite their own group to buy into that. this is the power of networking that u dont need to promote to zillion of ppl, just to the group leaders. and if they buy into ur product, then it is good. and vice versa. this group provides a fair trading ground for products.

like i said, i naturally want to promote my 2 lines of biz, as i believe they r good and i m using them. but it is up to u to buy into it to promote to ur own group. but 1st u want to make ur group as large as possible.

if u can give me ur phone #, i will call u to explain the essence of this program, or u want, u r welcome to call me @ XXX.XXX.XXXX

Jan,

Thank you again for your swift response and your patient explanation. I think it is starting to make a little more sense now. Let me see if I understand correctly.

Let's say my product is an Ace of Base fan club celebrating Ace of Base and their smooth Swedish dance pop sounds. Who's not going to enjoy that? I'll tell you who. Nobody!

I would need to amass a significant number of various group members (who I'd meet through your group and their groups and their groups' groups, etc.) for my Ace of Base group, who would in turn urge members of their various groups to join my group and the Ace of Base army would grow and grow until it was large enough to invade and occupy a small country. I like where this is going. It's a "Beauiful Life," indeed!

So, again, are you going to join my Ace of Base army or not?

Yours,

Alibaster K. Abthernabther

this is exactly what growing a list not to do - forcing ppl to join their group for 1 side benefit. if it is mutual benefit, ppl will join w/o 2nd thought. if ppl r not ready, no matter how good ur product is, it is not a mutual benefit. so to ur tyrannic tactic, it is a definite NO. I m interested in building good for all involved.

Jan,

I am sorry to hear this. Apparently, we have our own ideas on the best way to exploit the group feature of a popular social networking website. To each their own, I suppose.

While I appreciate your playful use of alliteration, I would have to disagree with your description of my tactics as "tyrannic." You see, the music of Ace of Base *is* of mutual benefit to all. It is of infinite benefit to those who serve it and, conversely, to those who are crushed beneath it's mighty weight.

Someday you will see. I only hope that when the day of reckoning is at hand, that you choose wisely. If you were truly "interested in building good for all involved" you would join my Ace of Base fan club group without further hesitation.

Remember, life is demanding without understanding.

Yours,

Alibaster K. Abthernabther

at this point and time, i see no benefit to me to join ur group just to promote for u. i did not force my biz to u even tho i think of the world to them & cost me nothing, but actually saves my monthly expense and giving me an income. yet i did not impose on u to join. so ur tactic is really oppressing indeed to force me into agreeing w u that it is beneficial to me, while i know for sure it isnt.

Jan,

How can you see no benefit to joining an Ace of Base fan club group? That is one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard anyone say.

I am not imposing on you to join. I am simply inviting you to join. You declared that one of the benefits of this mutually exclusive relationship was that we could build our groups. I am only trying to build my group in the exact manner you described. I thought we were going to build our groups together over a shared meal. What happened to that meal you promised? I'm hungry, Jan!

Frankly, I'm not sure I'm interested in joining your group anymore. First of all, while I have gone into painstaking detail explaining what you can expect from my Ace of Base group, I still have no idea what your group is really all about. What does your group offer? Dishwashers? Teddy bears? Sandwiches? I have no idea. Why would I join your group if I'm not sure if it will offer something that I like?

However, I am sure that you want to join my group because I know everyone loves Ace of Base. Everybody knows that! Why? Because everybody loves Ace of Base. Everyone breathes oxygen. Everyone sleeps. Everyone eats. And everyone loves Ace of Base. Why don't you see the Sign, already? Let it open up your eyes!

Yours,

Alibaster K. Abthernabther

this is the last i m gonna spend time w u. u r trying to dictate to me what i feel or say. isnt this tyrannic itself by any measure at all. pls dont answer cos i just dont have the time for this nonsense

Jan,

Why do you hate Ace of Base so much?

Yours,

Alibaster K. Abthernabther