Howdy,
The year is whizzing by and yet I’ve noticed that once again your wonderful BrätBus has not made an appearance in our lovely little city.
Why?
Months ago, in a gathering at City Hall, the question was brought up and we all agreed that a gross error had occurred, that you had probably made plans to visit our fantastic town but life, as it oft does, lobbed one or another curveball in your direction and kept you away.
It’s understandable. You’re a busy Corporation and America loves your fantastic meat product. You can’t be everywhere at once.
But, as time has gone on (and as we saw pictures on social media of your visit to Elkton or as we call it Ickton), hopes have been dampened; and at a more recent meeting, many stated that they’re starting to think that it isn’t an error at all and that actually you’re telling us that our beloved home—a place where many Hagen-Hogan BrätBoy Brats have been happily consumed—isn’t worth your time.
From there, some argued, the next logical conclusion is that you actively hate our city and every single person dwelling within its borders. That includes small animals, innocent children, the elderly, the sick & dying, and (if we’re looking at this from a theological standpoint that insists GOD is everywhere) the LORD ALMIGHTY HIMSELF.
Why so much hatred, we wondered. What have we, the people of this exceptional Midwestern city, including small animals, innocent children, the elderly, the sick & dying, and the CREATOR OF ALL THAT WE KNOW AND LOVE, done to you?
Working ‘round the clock, jammed into the confines of our Historically Significant City Hall, we have run over every possible rationale for your absence.
The small animals (cute squirrels, little birds, adorable field mice, etc.) think it has something to do with their smallness, that you look down on them both literally and figuratively, believing them to be inferior and weak in some kind of harsh Darwinian way, demanding them to get big or die.
The innocent children (some orphans) believe that your problem is with them.
There’ve been some whispers—tiny little children whispers, which I hate to even dignify—about “kid meat” in your wonderful food-stuffs. I don’t buy it. The whispers, that is, not your fantastic product; I buy lots of that, cannibalism rumors be darned. But the rumor persists.
I have tried to console them, patting them on their tiny children heads, saying, “No, that isn’t so, that isn’t the Hagen-Hogen Bräts Co that I know.” But they don’t know what to believe anymore because the BrätBus still hasn’t come.
I have to assume that even GOD is unsure what to think. HE probably can’t wrap his omnipresent head around how HE could create such a heartless entity. If I could, I would act in your defense, I’d explain that, maybe, it’s not that you have contempt for all the riches and wonders of Earth but that you are simply indifferent towards the world: not heated with anger, just cold and deadened to its many gifts.
Important Note: If your hesitancy has anything to do with that guy who collected all those heads, please understand, it hasn’t been proven that he was the one who did the head-cutting. It could just be—and this is the thinking of a lot of people in our city—that maybe he just found all those heads and that he was actually being a helpful citizen, cleaning up the corpse heads off the streets so the local children—the ones who are certain that you hate them and that your dancing hotdog, Billy Brät the BrätBoy Kid, hungers for their flesh—wouldn’t have to suffer the great amount of yuck and probably even greater amount of psychological trauma that comes from finding dead people’s heads bobbing around in storm drains.
Looking at it through that lens—which, like I said, a lot of us do—he’s sort of a hero, a folklore-type character, like Johnny Appleseed, journeying through the countryside, picking up heads and storing them in the industrial-grade freezer in his garage so that the children of the world can live in peace.
It’s important to let due process run its course. The trial won’t be until next year and, gee, now that I’m thinking about it, will probably draw a nice sized crowd, a crowd who’d love to take a tour of the famous-world-round BrätBus.
“Hey, are you going to sit in that stuffy courtroom for the next seven to eight hours listening to detailed testimony about freezer-burnt corpses? How about fueling yourself with some famous BrätBoy Bräts?”
Newspeople will probably be here. Not just local but the big boys too.
We know there is a lot to consider here, but, truly, there’s nothing that would make us happier—especially the sick & dying who could really use a pick-me-up pronto—than to see the fabled BrätBus, with its ketchup-red/mustard-yellow racing stripes and relish sunroof, cresting the horizon.
We await your response.
Your friends,
The people of Farmer’s Den, Illinois.
