It may have stung at the time, but you'll soon agree that my ribbing was comparatively mild. Do you want to see how it's really done?
Wolfteam, please pass this note on to whatever idiot FISA court I'm stuck in. Ahem:
"Dummy. I'm taking time out of my busy day to appear before this three-holer of a 'court' of yours. (I'm not sure how you get off calling this strip-mall rubber stamp boutique a 'court,' but I suppose every field of expertise has its words of art.)
"You'll notice that I couldn't be bothered to shine my shoes or put on a tie. You're not worth a five-minute wardrobe change.
"You know that you've had nothing of any consequence to say over the past decade, right? Your every august contemplation as a FISA court judge has been predicated upon falsehoods, such as the theoretically impossible presence at the scene of the crime of Flight 175, logically precluded by incompatible engine hardware, as detailed in the Capta Brightstick Document.
"So you're either stupid or corrupt. Out of respect for you, I will choose the less damning. So I'm glad that we're in agreement that your name is 'Stupid.' And how can you complain about that characterization? You've been mainlining Kool Aid for an entire decade, rendering your rulings with heavy eyelids, believing every preposterous story put forth by a Justice Department content to permit its agents to slit the throats of suspects and expert in the ginning up of fake terra plots. 'Really? The terriss are here? Where do I sign?'
"You, obviously, wouldn't know which end is up. Your thoughts have no value whatsoever. And I suppose it's my fault for pointing that out.
"Here's my closing argument: Since you clearly have no idea what you're doing, the best you can hope to do is to stay out of the way as more competent parties catch the bad men.
"Type up your papers, Stupid. I'd kind of like to get on with my comedy career at some point, okay?"
