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More Insights into the Heart and Soul of NEMSA
Since Tim e-mailed this to members at large, I imagine he's proud of it and wants it public:

Unfortunately, I must address certain recipients of this letter by name, so uttering that which is most loathed and detested, I write to the insipid creatures known as
Sal Rosselli, John Borsos, Bill Sokol, Bill Bower, and Dan Martin:

I would call you all poncing, pontificating pompous prats, but I am not writing to praise you. You are so nauseatingly corrupt you probably haven't the least idea why I have been moved to vent my feelings, however delicately, concerning your snivelling existence.

I have seen yeast with more pizzazz, more culture, and a better understanding of the world around them than you will ever possess. I have seen mange ridden, bulimic dogs eat things that are of more worth to the world than your self. You are clearly not of this world but of some gaseous giant. Why is it that on those unfortunate occasions when I think of you the words "slushy methane" come to mind?

Let's briefly touch upon your sexual habits. Do your partners know what you get up to with the Vegemite and pork sausages? It really shouldn't surprise me that such things and such actions give you pleasure, but in an appalling way, it does. I have had fantasies about attacking you with a machete, but I dare not. I once cut up a starfish, which was so neurologically simple that each piece grew into a clone of the original. Your coleopteran brains no doubt share certain appalling similarities with such creatures.

Your rank and file members, I know, have no future. There is no justice, no reason, no hope. Just blank despair, and teeth gnashing hopelessness.

To matters simply: you disgust me. Go away. Forever. Begone. Desist. Drop dead. How you managed to survive childhood without a close relative slowly and deliberately pressing their thumbs against your collective throats had me baffled for a long time. And then I realized: halitosis.

Do not think that because this is the last sentence in this letter that I have finished, that I have vented my spleen. I have merely scratched the surface.

Tim Bonifay

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