|Ours. It's all ours. Ours. Ours. (Source) Ours.|
My dear fellow lunatics,
I hope this address finds you well, or at least as well as your illness allows given that we are all mentally insane and confined in perpetuity to this asylum.
As those of you still with some modicum of cognitive abilities are probably aware, the powers that be have left. They are nowhere to be found. There are no sane people in charge here. We do not know why. Our fellow inmates have suggested that they may have disappeared into nothingness; that they may have been transformed into fairies and are still flitting about among us; that they may have been swallowed by the great Satan dog who barks orders to Mr. Jenson from the third toilet stall in ward C; that the State may have closed the asylum and neglected to tell any of us, leaving us to fend for ourselves in a glorious orgy of violence and mayhem.
Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing for sure. Or if we do, I am unaware of the means for discovering the answer. Regardless, an answer either way would not change the matter at hand: namely that we are leaderless and as such destined for bedlam and anarchy.
In the interest of preventing such miserable circumstance and of promoting our continued existence, I hereby offer my services to you as de facto leader of this asylum.
Fellow lunatics, let me be your King.
Perhaps a handful of you would prefer Mr. Wilkenson as your dictator-for-life, he who appeared closest to recuperating completely and leading a normal and successful life. While I most certainly understand your preference, I offer the following two pieces of information about Mr. Wilkenson: first, that I saw him clucking like a chicken and smearing his own feces on his chest not three days ago, and second, that me may or may not have choked to death this morning in the shower stalls on a bar of soap. As leader, it is not my place to speculate on how such a bar of soap would end up in a man’s throat, nor to suggest that some foul play was involved. I know only that we must move forward together.
Having disposed of potential rivals to the ‘throne’ as it were – and no, now that I think of it, this has nothing to do with Wilkenson though I can certainly understand your confusion given the awkward placement of this sentence next to the previous details. Here, let me start over.
These are the times that try men’s souls – those of you who believe you still have them – and as such we must pull together or we will most assuredly pull separately, for the only fear we have to fear is actual fear. I want only the best for you as my presumed children. And I hope to do better by you, my adopted lunatic children, than I did by my own biological children, who may or may not have choked on bars of soap.
So look to me for guidance, my gentle subjects. Rest assured, I will establish a culinary staff to keep the mess hall running. I will hopefully find a former pharmacist among you who can sort out who gets what medication when. I will also draft a crack military force to deal with any dragons, Catholics or various other mythical beasts who might try to invade our home. I will tend to all of these issues and more, except for Thursday nights which is the night of the week when I am possessed by the spirit of Ethel Merman, the undisputed First Lady of the musical comedy stage.
You are all welcome to attend my shows, free of charge, in the rec room on such occasions.
I wish to keep this address brief, and so I say unto you: be well, fellow lunatics, and treat each other the way I would want you to treat each other. My benevolence is great. My iron fist of wrath is very fisty.
Your new leader and King,
-Eric Welder aka Ethel Merman on Thursdays Only