Dear Mr Paul McCartney,

I am in awe of you. In awe. In the words of the great Mr Intar Web, “Wow, just wow.” Your heroic quest to stop the cute widdle baby sealy-wealies from certain death has inspired and strengthened me.

However, as I sit here in Toronto in my seal-skin igloo covered in a lush scattering of baby seal hides with my baby seal tooth necklace around my neck and baby seal hide head-dress, I must ask this question: have you ever clubbed a baby seal to death?

No, you haven’t. And this is, Mr McCartney, why you have so much rage in you. You need a release. You need catharsis. Nothing, nothing at all, can come close to the pleasure of hitting something that will one day grow into a gigantic ugly beast over the head with an iron bar. I like to think of it as getting in touch with my masculine side. You might want to try this as well. You desparately need 1) rage control, and 2) masculinity, and 3) to have your vocal cords bashed in with an iron pipe.

But I’ll leave you with some thoughts. First, Canadians are not barbarians. We do not, for instance, skin the baby seals alive. We kill them first, and then we skin them alive. Afterwards, we tear raw chunks of flesh off with our teeth whilst howling at the moon. Naked. All this to the whimpering of Disney-esque seal mothers, deprived suddenly of their darling children.

Also, thank you for protesting something that no longer takes place. Can I recommend a few more? Alright then! Tiennamen Square, for one. Horrible. Also, napalming Vietnamese villages during the war. Terrible. And for dessert, I hear the sack of Rome was pretty bad. You make some signs, like “Atilla teh Killa!” and I’ll carry them around for you while I’m not doubled over giggling like an idiot.

Lastly, a joke that you may think quite merry. What’s the difference between a truckload of bowling balls and a truckload of baby seals? That’s right! You can’t unload the bowling balls with a pitchfork!

Thanks for your sincere consideration,
Concerned Canadians Everywhere

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