Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Dear Mr Politician, thank you for your leaflet
25/06/2012Posted by on
Dear Mr Simpson, Conservative MP for London South West
The other morning, I was woken up by the heavy footsteps of the postman as he trudged his way to my front door. He must have been very excited, as he shoved something through my letterbox really hard. Well, it was either that, or he tripped up on the cat that usually lies across my driveway. Actually, I think that is the more likely scenario, because I heard him swear at something, and I haven’t seen the cat for two days now.
When I first picked the leaflet up, I was struck with just how fresh it felt, especially when some of the red ink rubbed off on my hand. To me, this is a good sign, because if I go into the bakers to buy a knotted roll, I want those yummy glazed sesame seeds to flake off as I pick it up. The loose ink on your leaflet is an endearing quality, as it gives me the impression that you like bread, just as I do. This is reassuring and educational, as I have always wondered what politicians feed themselves during their time at Westminster; up until now, I had always thought it was a combination of coffee and bullshit.
When I opened the leaflet, I was drawn to the faux-professionalism of its contents. Dearest constituent it said, reminding me of just how serious politics is. It also reminded me of that time when the bank sent me a birthday card, addressed To the account holder. Although it was only four words, I felt as if my bank manager had personally popped round to say, “We’ve got your personal details and your money, so don’t get any ideas above your station.” Likewise, your leaflet referring to me as a constituent is a firm reminder that, if I’m unhappy with what you’re doing, no matter how much you may have licked my arse to get me to vote for you in the first place, you won’t put up with any kind of rebellious nonsense from me. I confess that I like my overlords to be firm, powerful and jealously paranoid, and you seem to fit the bill perfectly.
I especially liked the photo of you that was shown on page two of the leaflet, standing there in someone’s front garden. The lawn was long enough to avoid alienating any crop-growing farmers, yet also short enough to show off the tasteful tartan slippers, that the old woman who was standing next to you was wearing. I obviously don’t know whether she was a constituent or your mother, but she looked suitably terrified of your limp and clammy hand, and also of that sycophantic grin that was plastered across your chubby face. I must say, I was impressed with how lush and healthy the grass looked. If I was a dog, I definitely wouldn’t want to ruin it by squatting down, and taking a shit on it. Instead, I would do my business in the middle of the pavement, and then go onto the grass to do that funny thing that some dogs do, when they clean their arse by dragging it along the floor.
Unfortunately, I’m not a dog, so would it be okay if I came to your house, and shit all over your doorstep instead?