This article is part of the District Bulletin series.
Oh, step no further, you! Your superiors levy a stern insistence upon your stride: that you stop now, that you read this Bulletin tacked hereto this pole, a gay civic delight! If stride you further, you our ward, in civic neglect, in gloriless misduty: oh, the ignominy of this act. No, such a treachor be him that passes the pole in hurry, him who averts the flippant eyes of a youngmartin child to ignore this pole-such a treachor will be judged with humorless sobriety by the sternest of his superiors, if caught doing it.
And with the treachor in mind, the very cocklaw who might now be coughing his disregard toward this very pole, we compel you to study this list of a wanted offender.
Wanted Offender: Dorroile Y_____
Genital Allegiance: Male
Stature: Tall, so floppy sometimes
Eyes: He never opens them
Dorroile, erstwhile Head Better Superior of our district, is the worst man. He is a broiler of scandality and a heinic inspiration to all who would joke the law. He is antic and grotesque, beloved to the moon; incorrigible. His gruesome, slapping dance is imitated by children despite the loom of the switch, for he represents to them the mythic freedom of snakes and bears. All else who offend in this district offend in his shadow. We asked the oldest man if Dorroile were the worst man ever in the district, and the oldest man, eyes so red with dripping tears, said "to answer would only delight him in his scandals." And so we asked the fattest man, and the fattest man knew that Dorroile were the worst man.
Last year, this district elected him to its highest office, and there he remained until it was discovered that he had clowned us with tricks and falsed the vote, which we would have known the whole time but for the fact that he is smarter than all of us. Dorroile Y____ has now absconded his post with several women and enough money to humiliate us for a decade. His debasements escape the dimensions of mere list, but anyway we do:
Emboldening the perverse.
His dance, so full of slapping and horror, his eyes seem to bulge even as they are closed and women cannot bear to look at it; our animals hide before it even happens, as if they know something is wrong like an earthquake.
Failing to accept justice.
Disrupting the scheduled tedium of the Day of Despair by commandeering a megaphone and issuing gay commands in what onlookers recount as a "farty duck voice."
Inventing unlicensed songs from his own imagination and teaching them to a great chorus of nocturnal tramps who sing them now at the rudest of hours and we are irritated by the cleverness of the songs, which purely on an artistic level are more successful than our famous district song, the Corn Barrow Song, which now seems lifeless in comparison to the songs of the tramps which awaken us each night.
Imposing secret alterations upon the sunbathing reflector of our Head Better Superior, Claude Fantsy, so that an image of his grinning face was burnt into the Claude Fantsy's chest skin, causing such distress that Goodbarrel Fantsy shook his tiny fist and cursed the sun, dooming himself to the sun's angry hot retribution.
Amid a concert recital of great cultural import attended by the Head Better Superior of a neighboring district with whom our district yearns to negotiate a grain accord but with further-whom relations have long been tense due to a fabled past of grain feuds, corking a flute.
Why does he never open his eyes?
Circumnavigating the district on childback after luring the huge, stupid, invincible child of former Superior for Education Walf Bazane (whose walleyed piglet of a progenitant was the secret shame of our district) to himself with false candies and then catching and saddling the fat child and hopping upon its back and whooping around for hours and hours until the child was crying, defeated utterly by the exertion upon its fat pink-dappled limbs, and then proclaiming gaily that the child had benefited from this exercise.
Eluding they who would punish his malactions by means of trickery so ingenious that four adult superiors with costumes and nets were utterly clowned and yet so babyheaded in its simplicity that these superiors were also shamed by the district goodpublic for their foolishness.
Posting false district bulletins on poles which glorify his infamy with tales of false heroism, crude artistic unflatterments of superiors, the words to his invented songs and horripilating diagrams of the awful dance which made him famous. This is not such a bulletin, but instead is a real and true authorized one, but his may say the same thing so your superiors urge you to use logic and discretion when deciding which is a real bulletin; note that this one has no cruel renderings of your superiors with their worst facial features hyperbolized with unreal prominence.
Embarrassing the decency of a formal lady by bouncing a rubber ball up under her skirts and then gathering it upon its next bounce and holding it aloft, yelling and laughing that it had met the salty undercarriage of a rich fine lady, and then depositing the ball into the mouth of a passing dog who took it with great delighted relish and galloped away carrying the most secret essence of a formal superior lady in its foaming happy jaws.
Standing on the cold roof of our beloved Weep of Desperation and twirling a large inflated ball atop his bony finger for hours atop hours, his smile so inscrutable, inviting us to be menaced by the prospect that he might be doing something terrible or preparing to do it, but then never doing it, as if only to taunt our expectations and strain our nervestrings with the ambigued promise of misdeed.
Being the worst guy.
If you see Dorroile or detect him, or think of a way to catch him that he can't escape with his ugly sliding and his better mind than ours, please immediately utter an extended yowl until a superior arrives to offer comfort. Dorroile, if it is your closed eyes that read this bulletin, please know that we will find you and tether you to the pole forever, until as the decades wear on your bones hang limp from the pole and children play your ribs like marimbas, having forgotten your name and your closed eyes and your fancy evil.
If you are 35 and you are not integrated into the Gigathrax then you are not ready to retire.
While designing this space, I imagined David Fincher being forced to recreate the music video for Nine Inch Nails' Closer in a haunted gas station bathroom.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.