To the fop, dunce, and dollop of a man

Of anger

My head bulges with ire. For days without number observations have been made. From them my understanding commanded interpretations to be assembled. The results were analyzed. Now, because of my understanding, untenable feelings displace my peace and vex me with prerogatives to write a mad missive. This I do, not for the longing to be a toxic male, but for the ways of which I know I must follow. When turbidity claims my mind I know there is one thing for me to do: make a path for my anger. O not to understand!

My anger is a carefully crafted object. It does not arrive instantaneously. Impulsiveness did not craft it in an hour or a day, or even in a week. Nor did hesitation yield it over the course of a month. Like a tree, my anger is a living organism. Growing over time and space it is capacious enough to wait. And old enough to consume his lineage.

Like a soggy, dead Willow branch, so is the strength of his ways. The unconditional love of his family precludes humility while promoting his deviant character. They are blind to the truth-all truth. Thus his selfishness has found limitless resources. He is neither decent nor skillful. Claiming he is a proficient, deeds created by his hands denounce that claim with ardent protestations, or failures, actually both. Self-awareness to icky is that he is aware he has less money than others. he does not identify deficiencies within himself, because there aren’t any.

He would masturbate for Martin Luther, but he wouldn’t prostrate himself before the Messiah. He loves dogma and savors the dour. Unfortunately, he cant be bothered with wisdom for an hour. Which makes him a poor fit for religion. Icky, did you hear that, you callous little prig?

Of a false christian

Out of your mouth you say you are an LCMS Lutheran. You are not a reformer. You are a conformer. Lo, I studied you. I took the measure of your brain and blindspots. When you weren’t looking I ran a plumb line over your work and through your life. I found divergence between the deed and the dude. You wend your ways more than the Pecatonica river. And when I wasn’t sure, I scrutinized my methodology. I took a micrometer to your carefully laid ways. When I tried to measure what you said was smooth, the spindle or the anvil of the micrometer would sink into a crack. You are just like the rest of them.

Wait, I still have more to say to you.

Icky says he is a christian. But Icky doesn’t love his neighbor. So according to the theology he falsely flies under, he cant be a disciple. So he isn’t. If Icky was ever compelled to rescue you from a dire situation, first it wouldn’t be his conscience that compelled him to do so. But if he were to rescue you or serve you, and let’s say he broke a nail in the process, he would find you or your family and demand recompense. He would charge you for the cheap nail clippers he used and broke during the clipping, because he worships money but calls it frugality. He would assure you that your rescue caused him great discomfort and he would harp on the summation of his inconveniences for so long, you would eventually beg for someone to end your life. He does not love you. Though his religion tells him to serve. He doesn’t serve you. He serves the comfort of his own pathetic life.

He spits in the faces of Michelangelo and Da Vinci, while considering himself more brilliant than both. He defecates on the work of the masters. Precision is a lofty, unattainable ideal for Icky. Imprecision suffices in everything, even morals. After finishing his fifth meal by 10:30a, he scorns the poor and reminds himself not to listen to their cries because they are lazy. He calls prejudice kindness and wipes his hypocritical hind parts with malice. And if Icky were to read these words, the mask would be at its fullest power of pretend christian. he would simper while implying he has no idea what I am talking about. That’s because the layers of deceit within his own identity are so thick a .50 cal armor-piercing round wouldn’t be able to penetrate them.

These are my words. This is my anger. I see this debased human for who he pretends to be and for who he is. A disgusting dichotomy. If you were a mortician who happened to be working Icky’s funeral, redirect his family to a different parlor, or better yet send them to a different funeral home. Then look his decaying corpse in the eyes and spit in his face. This is the send off he deserves. Don’t bury him, just throw him in a river. He deserves no gravestone. His ego memorialized him enough in life.

These are my words, and this is my anger.

My last words to ricky

You respected me. You trusted me. From that trust you asked me questions of both technical and subjective natures. So I gave you counsel when you asked. When did I ever refuse you? When did I reject you? I respected the space between the learned and the lacking. Because of my expertise and experience I didn’t hold that over you. I didn’t smash your face into the pavement, because you didn’t know certain things or weren’t a proficient. I didn’t humiliate your pride when you made mistakes, even though, morally, it would’ve improved you. I gave you space to learn and improve. I let you take on tasks that you wouldn’t complete in an expert way. But I shut my mouth and let you learn. Why? Because I trusted that you had the aptitude to learn from your mistakes.

So how is it that you acted like such an arrogant overlord to our coworkers? Was it because they weren’t going to Heaven? Let me tell you something. Should that thought run through your debased mind- those precious men may not be christians, or articulate, or boss tree workers, but they are purer than you. I have worked with people who have every excuse to walk with swagger when it comes to professional tree climbing. Largely due to what they have accomplished in the industry. They weren’t half as high and mighty and exclusive as you. How do you explain that?

Hypocrisy. Pride. Deceit. In my eyes, those three words are your memorials.

Go home and tell your wife that you’re not going to church on Sunday. Tell her you’re not a christian any more because you don’t know how to love. Call up your dad and tell him his son is a bum. Ask him why he didn’t raise you better. Call up the organization who has you instruct chainsaw courses, and resign, because you’re not proficient with a chainsaw. Unfortunately, I have to say this, because you don’t have the type of self-awareness to check yourself when you’re out of your depth: someone who is not proficient with a tool should not teach classes to other people under the guise of being a ‘professional’. Your fakery is a universal insult to climbing arborists everywhere.

I don’t know why you chose to get into this industry. But you chose wrong. You’re just a tourist. A tourist that throws tantrums when you don’t get your way.

How you spoke and interacted with our coworkers, made it clear to me that your hatred mounts to the stratosphere. I will have nothing to do with you. You need to go back to the start. And begin all over again.

These are my words, and this is my anger.