This article is part of the District Bulletin series.
Arf! Please, please, please, we can only beg so much: citizen, you who reads this, PLEASE exercise the best judgment granted you by Swimp, our God. You will need it. Do you see? Dorroile, the worst guy, has taken to a hobby most vile: the distribution of false District Bulletins, aimed only at bad laughs at the cost of Your Beloved Superiors. More vile yet, he even has hobbied thus: to create tracts of religion, masquerading as the teachings of our Lord God Swimp, sweet Cookie Bear who lives in the Moon, which serve not to exalt the sweetness of blameless Baby Swimp but to ridicule Your Superiors is most heinic a manner.
Unfortunately, though, Swimp Theology is a young science, since we only thought up this wonderful baby-sweet God a couple of years ago. Therefore, Your Superiors regrettably cannot fully verify for debunk any tracts and teachings attributed to Swimp, because who knows? So when a new Swimp Tract is delivered to us, we do not know! Is it the providence of one of Swimp's Sweet Pug Angels, those lovely daysnoring pug babies who snuffle down to our realm to bring teachings and tidings of the sweet baby Cookie Bear Swimp? Or did Dorroile write a fake one to make us look like big idiots? Theology cannot verify! So we are obligated thus to print each new tract delivered without prejudice.
But PLEASE, you: in the case of this one in particular, PLEASE consider the fact that it may be the false work of Dorroile, the worst guy. We harbor the strongest possible suspicion that this one is a fake Swimp teaching. Do not, please, please do not listen to it, unless it turns out later to be the true word of Swimp. But we bet it does not, but we are not one thousand percent sure, so we are religiously obligated to present it:
Apprehend you this, believer: Swimp, your God beloved, shall no longer condescend to tolerate mankind. Rankled he be, and for too long, against the unholy dalliances of this district. Whereas once a babysoft Cookie Bear was he, your Swimp, dweller of the moon and God of all most sweetie-mild and cutest-- now, OH NO! Swimp is enraged. His regard for man has curdled. You will die by his cruel baby teeth, so kitten-sharp but tiger-strong. His wrongs we (your Superiors) list now below:
I. Your Weakness Against Comedy
Swimp, former Cookie Bear of the Moon, he who yawned most preciously in the face of danger like a wobblefawn so sleepy, now trembles now with cutey love but with palpable rage-- and oh, you most surely soon will palpate it. Swimp is disgusted at you. Swimp hates the stupid fears that rule your idiot babyhead lives. Who is this "Dorroile," charming gadabout, that you fear so much? Why do plump ladies refuse to ride in Dorroile's wheelbarrow? Is it because Your Superiors regard Dorroile as "The Worst Guy"? Well, hey: in fact, Dorroile is THE BEST, and if you hung around with Dorroile for a little while and watched him do his HILARIOUS DANCES, you would gain a more complete theological understanding of Swimp's plan: Swimp thinks Dorroile is hilarious, and his grotesque dancing comedies and his funny ugly parodies of Your Superiors are actually quite the best. Everyone loves Dorroile, especially Swimp. His handsome satires fluff the placid furs of Swimp and make Swimp nice. To not laugh when Dorroile does a funny thing is now the Awf'lest Sin in the eyes of Swimp, and to refuse a free ride in his wheelbarrow is to refuse Swimp himself.
[Note from Your Superiors: this is all quite disturbing, if true.]
II. Your Regard For Superiors
Swimp, the softest cuteybear, Your God, must be foremost in your heart. Each time you entertain the moronity of your Shitty Idiot Superiors, a hair is plucked most painfully from your sweet Swimp, and for each hair plucked, Swimp grows another awful tooth. SO FULL NOW is the grin of Swimp, and each tooth so thirsty for blood and ravenous for scab! Hairbank, even him the most insatiable barbarian, would be put to shame: Hairbank may delect in the flesh of your child, but Swimp consumes all man in his baby cute mouth. And why? Because his jealousy festers whenever his authority is made second to the whims of mortals. Swimp is holy, and Your Superiors are of Earth. Your Superiors, most particularly the Head Better Superior, the rail-thin sadman cuckold Claude Fantsy, whose fat dimwit son embarrasses our sensibilities daily and whose really most awful wife prowls around for "NOVEL MAN EXPERIENCES" whenever her husband's back be turned-- Your Superiors, Claude like I said in particular-- they are the true worst. Swimp damns them, all of them, one by one, each and every single Superior; he damns them personally and always. They are all super shitty, and Swimp damns all who hold them in any positive regard as most as he damns all them shitty guys themself.
[Note from Your Superiors: please let us not accept this right away as truth until we verify that this is real Swimp theology, which we think probably it is not.]
III. Your Refusal To Follow Swimp's Commandments
What is your idiot excuse for not following the commandments Swimp has set forth for you? Did you lose them? Were they somehow not given to you ever or a kind of thing like that? It appears as like some clerical error-- or perhaps a deliberate hiding by Your Superiors-- has resulted in you not ever seeing these commandments until right now. So I now will publish them:
This is all true and from the baby mouth of precious Swimp. May you all start acting less like a lot of big idiots and be blessed. Thank you.
- Swimp & His Agents
[Note from Your Superiors: do you see how the very last of this author's points looks very much suspicious? Please, we recommend that you wait for a while before you do anything awful because of reading this. If truly these were the words of Swimp, we are sorry, oh precious sweet baby Swimp, for all of our many failings in your eyes and we will work to be nicer to Dorroile.]
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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