(translated from jean-luc coudray - lettres d'engueulade)
Dear Sir,
My rearview mirrors informed me of the presence of your buffalo-proof bumper glued against my car, implying that I was going too slowly and that my existence stood in the way of your freedom.
I can tell that you chose to spend the value of an apartment on a metallic bunker with tinted windows, a cross between a safe, armor, and a robot, in order to get around risking the lives of none but everyone else. This machine of defense and of offense, whose all-terrain capability suggests an ulterior military purpose, through a shiny coating disguises itself as a civilian vehicle. As such, this financial arrogance, this disproportion of luxury, serves to integrate barbarism into civilization. Your assault tank wants to be humane by means of opulence, trying to integrate within an economy, within a fashion, seeking to legitimize violence through the false morality of money, adding insult to danger.
The SUV is a truck disguised as car that, posing to offer the services of a private vehicle, pollutes and massacres like a semi. You have chosen to consider others as nothing but flesh to crush, reducing the rapport with your neighbor to a purely physical confrontation. You delegate, furthermore, this relationship to a machine, avoiding the reality of corporeal contact. Your ego is nothing but a lonely worm under a carapace. If you begrudge others, it's because they flaunt, underneath your eyes, their capacity to live without the protection of an SUV.
Anyway, your anatomy of a mollusk, which for a skeleton has but the resistance of confusion, escapes from any prehension of intelligence. Look at you, astray. Listen to you, scattered. A multiplicity defiles your interlocutor. Your gaze is nothing but a docile relay of hatred. You mimic a human appearance to safeguard some respectability. You want to dominate others since you are to yourself nothing but an incomprehensible alien, a hateful horde, a throng of impulses. To organize these affects you turn to technology, an ideology embodied in scrap metal. Your oversized piece of junk is your philosophy materialized. Transgressing the rules of the road, terrifying small cars, is the extent of your freedom. It's what you call "adventure" and what shapes your tires like jaws. Your thoughts, delivered to you by the dashboard of your vehicle. Stupidity, a technique to avoid human connections.
In your capacity as a professional idiot, you are yet another technician.
Great rehearsal,