An open letter to the petty malcontents who have absconded with Denver

I have been informed that Denver, the PurpleSaurus mascot and physical emblem of my legacy with TX Live, was purloined in bad faith from his rightful caretakers as they executed their duties of providing for the emotional well being of the league at The Park this past Thursday by hosting bar games. This is unacceptable. This is the work of children who value nothing but themselves and the fulfillment of their own ill-conceived dreams of lasting glory, and instead cover themselves with the stink of shame. I have these words for them. They have created this fraudulent Facebook Account to chronicle their reprehensible deeds.

Dear Malicious Captors,

I know you're holding Denver against his will. You thought you were real clever posting June 11, 1993 as his birthday didn't you? All you've done is given yourself away. Denver has nothing to do with Jurassic Park. Those toys were total shit. Ooooooo "battle damaged" T-Rex? FUCK YOU KENNER-HASBRO.

Denver comes from an age when men were men and toys were toys: made out of rock hard plastic. When dinosaurs weren't just dinosaurs, they were dinosaurs with frickin laser beams attached to their frickin heads. When Valorians regularly triumphed over Rulons. When Questar could always be counted on to outwit the sinister Emperor Krulos.

Denver's birthday is October 1, 1988 you fucking clowns. You two-bit posers. You pale, unsubstantial, hopeless, entitled children.

Of course, his namesake hails back to an even simpler time (about three weeks before his birth), when a young group of California youths could pal around with their rock star dinosaur buddy and travel back through time with the assistance of a fragment of eggshell. As was the style of the time.

The 80s. When shit was real. When Tyco made the greatest goddamn toys ever created, strong enough to endure 25 years unharmed and take on a sweet coat of purple paint and spray-on glitter and find new relevance in this god forsaken world where a group of right-minded pioneers of badassery could appreciate his form, function, and history, passing him to one another as a talisman of awesomeness in reward for herculean accomplishments in the field of fun.

All that, only to be abducted by some halfwitted chuckling Gomers who don't deserve to share a fucking room with him, let alone hold his sacred form. You think yourself champions? BOO. You treat him like garbage, because thats what you are: the Champions of Refuse. So here's to you, you pieces of shit. Here's to the Champions of Slime, the Champions of Filth, the Champions of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo. Boo.

I expect Denver returned to his rightful caretakers this Thursday, or left on my porch if you're too cowardly to face those who you've disrespected in the open.

Love,
Stephen