To whom it may concern:

If you happen to be a member of one of the many cults that meet above the convenience store on State Street in New London that get together every other night so that the members can raise their arms and launch "hallelujahs" to heaven, take my advice: Go home tonight and pray. Pray quietly. Pray silently to yourselves that your lord is a merciful one, because if He's half as annoyed as I am with the constant onslaught of the booming major-scale, emotionally pastel-colored vocal torture that you call "singing," then you're in for one hell of a smiting. Entire cities have been turned to dust for crimes far less offensive than the guttural abuse of the vocal chords at high volume in which you engage night after night.

You also might look into propositioning the government for a nice weapons contract, as you seem to have found exactly the right combination of pitch, texture, and volume of audio to produce non-trivial pain and mental anguish in innocent bystanders.

What you've managed to do, as a matter of fact, is project your screeching appeals to God on the rest of the town like a long-range auditory halitosis that stinks up the immediate vicinity, killing small animals, and stunning larger ones. You could at least warn the rest of us before you decide to crank up the Pain Machine so that we can hide children and the elderly away in cellars until your epic firestorm of pure musical shit has burned through another quiet night and left behind a smoldering mountain of rubble.

Oh, and happy mother's day, everybody.

After Blog Mint [?] :

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