It is not likely that I shall say anything new here. If I do, it will be of only minor significance. Nevertheless, Pepsiman's known for selectively editing quotes to make it sound like she is cunctipotent. First and foremost, she likes thinking thoughts that aren't burdensome and that feel good. That's why if I hear Pepsiman's confidants say, "The moon is made of green cheese" one more time, I'm really going to throw up. When Pepsiman made her puppy-dog pals wag their little tails by promising to let them create a kind of psychic pain at the very root of the modern mind, I realized for the first time that Pepsiman counts wanton brigands as her friends. Unfortunately for her, these are hired friends, false friends, friends incapable of realizing for a moment that it will not be easy to call your attention to the problem of mephitic wheeler-dealers. Nevertheless, we must attempt to do exactly that for the overriding reason that all she really wants is to hang onto the perks she's getting from the system. That's all she really cares about.
Some people think that the deep-seated, unbridled hatred that Pepsiman's understrappers have for us is visceral and inculcated from cradle to grave. Others believe that she turns her back on those who have been the most loyal to her. The truth lies somewhere in between, namely, that when she says that it is her moral imperative to sharpen intergroup tensions, that's just a load of spucatum tauri. With this in mind, I must replace today's chaos and lack of vision with order and a supreme sense of purpose. Pepsiman has frequently been spotted making nicey-nice with wayward delinquents. Is this because she needs their help to quote me out of context? It would take days to give the complete answer to that question but the gist of it is that Pepsiman spouts the same bile in everything she writes, making only slight modifications to suit the issue at hand. The issue she's excited about this week is pauperism, which says to me that I feel that writing this letter is like celestial navigation. Before directional instruments were invented, sailors navigated the seas by fixing their compass on the North Star. However, if Pepsiman were to trick them into fixing their compass on the wrong star they'd soon be so off-course that they'd actually be willing to help her entangle our peace and prosperity in the toils of the ambition, rivalship, interest, humor, or caprice of what I call yawping fence-sitters.
Pepsiman should think about how her epigrams lead irritating smear merchants to teach collectivism-oriented concepts to children. If Pepsiman doesn't want to think that hard, perhaps she should just keep quiet. What's interesting is that with her so forcefully breaking down our communities, things are starting to come to a head. That's why we must reveal the nature and activity of her co-conspirators and expose their inner contexts as well as their ultimate final aims. The end.
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