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To the Writers of Textbooks

Ahoy Pirate,

There are certain things that worry me, but citing them all would lead us nowhere – a place we have simply agreed to name ‘Belgium’. According to the Nouvelle Gazette of Charleroi there are three types of mischief that are not allowed in our country: economic success, a superior northern culture, and education that informs on the difference between school children and pedophiles (‘pédés’). A matter of fuzzy logic seems to have been applied here, but I shall not comment on these issues. Dear Intern, I too have a case officer, and she doesn’t like it when I whine, so I shall remain vague, like a true Walloon.

Recently I can’t take my mind off of the concept of the easter egg. It confuses me, and worse for my neighbours, infuriates me beyond the point of caring. They come wrapped in something I can’t chew, sniff or ladle on anything. It is absolutely pissing me off. God knows I have experimented with several eggs recently, and all had that tangy taste of cement and rigor mortis, but the train of thought should probably stop there. It is Mother who refused to let me unwrap them (she insisted on calling them ‘suppositoires’), so I never learned that secret; I can’t however go back and ask her now. Of course, I have tried, but in vain.

I live in constant fear of the green dragon, a monster I can never defeat. It smiles at me like an evil wheel of Wensleydale cheese. Touching the dragon is far too risky, and I can’t simply name him Uncle, because that would be too unkind to the man I hold in contempt. He, for that matter, shall remain where he is, in the big trunk (a section of my mind); anyway, Scabby will give him what he wants (I hope).

So far, you scumbag of a pirate, I have tried to enumerate a couple of points. It is up to you to decide if I were successful (the only answer is 'yes', because ‘no’ means you are dodging the question). All that is left is for me to blame the Secretary, a man not worth his epaulettes, detachable as they are.

I hope there is madness to my method.

Ever so really,

The Belgian (for The Tavistock Society, Section 5b, Road Accidents and Festivities)
PS: The Parti Socialiste in Charleroi doesn't hold my personal details any longer, as I am now considered a traitor (any non-socialist Belgian) and a corruptor. I am without country, papers or prescriptions (in order of increasing importance).