Dear Thomas Hooker,
It is to you, who like a farmer that plants seeds into the ground in anticipation of a bountiful crop, planted the colonial roots of this now-malignant state as far back as 1638. It is to thee, Thomas Hooker, that I speak. Mournfully to report the boundless potential which thou, through soulful, divinely-inspired passion envisioned for the Connecticut colony, has not been realized through the efforts of thy heathenous descendents.
Thou once said, “Prayer is my chief work, and it is by means of it that I carry on the rest.” It may not comfort thee to note that prayer was not answered. Take transportation. While the greatest concerns in thy day, where one could traverse in a horse-driven buggy or wagon, was the possibility of a broken wheel or treading through manure, the concerns of those that populate your once-magnificent state have shifted. The modern citizens of Connecticut, like Sisyphus in ages past, doth struggle against the oppressive burdens of survival.
Patience is the chief effort of those burdened by the tribulations of Connecticut traffic, which, steadily as the confinement of eternal purgatory, entrap them and bar them from carrying on the pressing matters of their day. For, like the blackened soul of many an unrepentant sinner during thy day, the highways and streets of Connecticut attempt in vain to obscure the patches that conceal the holes. While the asphalt, whose color doth match the fathomless blanket of darkest night, fulfills its existential purpose of mending that which was torn asunder, it doth little to reunite the torn fragments of this nutmeg state’s soul.
Before even the time, John Smith famously said, “He that will not worke, shall not eate.” However, for those living within the drawn boundaries of this Constitution state, one can work from dawn until dusk and still find themselves more than one shilling short of affording suitable sustenance to eat. The cost of living in Connecticut is 22 percent higher than the national average. Housing is 35 percent higher, and utilities face a similar 32 percent increase. Alas.
In thday, the costs of constructing hearth and home were no greater than that of the lumber, pegs, and other material required for the task. Today, the average Connecticut resident spends anywhere from $125 to $270 per square foot for residential land, or in total anywhere from $312,000 to $675,000 for sturdy homestead. Whereas in 1796, just as the people of Connecticut truly began to flourish, the cost per acre was a mere two dollars, as the modern University of Houston doth report,or just under forty-seven dollars when adjusted for inflation. Taking this seemly figure into account, the median home price in Connecticut should hath been a mere $117,000, when accounting for the inflation of coin (with which all bartering needs be done), a mere half of its current median of $335,000.
The autumn leaves that fall from the trees of Connecticut may draw the eye of painter and poet alike, but the beauty of such scenery is easily set aside when one considers the costs involved in living here. And how can one earn their way in life, when there are few enough opportunities to earn a liveable income?
Abandon hope, all ye who enter Connecticut. For all yee with ambitions aside from working as an insurance business employee, or a practicing lawyer, your best course of action would be to saddle thy horse and flee this state, before the inevitable pull of scenic beauty, like the malevolent power of a cursed unholy object, draws thee forever within range. Take pride in thy creation, Thomas Hooker, but like an unruly monster that escapes the grip of its benevolent maker, the topographical beast thou have spawned into being doth indeed wreak havoc in the lives of all those who find themselves in its inescapable grasp.
For the good of the descendents of thy people, who did first embark upon a pilgrimage to a land unbeknownst, we must look to our futures beyond the farthest horizon, and set a torch to this marred and taxed land whose corruption seeps into the very soil. For it is only through the cleansing fires of Hell that one may see the full glory of the heavens beyond.
Ungratefully thine,
Daniel Lenois
Daniel Lenois is a staff writer for Blue Muse Magazine
Headline Photo courtesy of the Christian Broadcasting Network
And here I’ve been drinking his beer without realizing what a jerk he was.
Very enjoyable read.
Clever!