Hey Stephen,
Templeton here. The rat. The scavenger. The sewer-scented philosopher of the fairgrounds. And even I think you’re disgusting.
Charlotte and Wilbur explained what you’ve been up to, and let me tell you, Stephen, the barn erupted in outrage. Wilbur nearly puked into his slop bucket. Charlotte actually paused her weaving to mutter, “What the hell is wrong with that man?” And me? I’ve eaten expired corndogs out of a puddle behind the Tilt-a-Whirl, and you still manage to be the foulest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Let’s start with the fact that you named your federal stunt “Charlotte Web.” How dare you wrap your tiny, haunted-scarecrow energy around something crafted by a creature whose very existence radiated compassion? Charlotte saved a life with her words. You’ve spent your career turning words into weapons against people who never harmed you.
Honestly, Stephen, if decency were a crop, you’d be the Dust Bowl.
This whole operation? This one-week “shock and awe” stew you cook up to appease the orange void you serve? It’s pathetic. You’re a government ghoul lurking in the rafters, whispering cruelty down to a man who barely knows which direction the sun rises. You’ve got the charisma of a moldy hot dog and the temperament of a haunted snowglobe filled with bad intentions.
And let’s talk about your face for a moment. Because I need you to understand the visual: you look like a Victorian chimney sweep cursed by a witch for snitching on her cat. If you stood next to a scarecrow, farmers would give you the hat.
But more importantly, your policies are bottom-feeding sadism dressed up as national security. You want fear, not safety. You want suffering, not order. You want a country where you can stomp around like you’re auditioning for the role of “Man Who Invented Trauma.” No wonder you keep trying to militarize every city in sight. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to feeling powerful.
And dragging Charlotte’s name into this? The barn wants you disowned by literature.
You’re a parasite, Stephen. A tapeworm with a grudge against humanity. You feed off other people’s fear and call it leadership. You build cages and call it patriotism. You sneak cruelty into policy the way I sneak funnel cakes out of trash cans, except the difference is I leave the world cleaner.
You think you’re spinning webs? You couldn’t weave a coherent thought if someone handed you a loom and a manual. Charlotte wove miracles. You weave nightmares.
Let me make this clear in case your brain is running on empty calories again:
You are the single worst thing to ever happen to a children’s book reference.
In closing, Stephen, stop using Charlotte’s name. Stop using anyone’s name. Stop talking, actually. You’ve brought enough misery into the world. Take your dusty soul, your ashtray aura, your crypt-keeper haircut, and go sit in a corner until you remember what a human being is supposed to be.
Signed,
Templeton
The Rat Who Eats Trash but Still Has Standards
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This post has been syndicated from Closer to the Edge, where it was published under this address.