Honestly. You’ve pissed me off no end, you ingrates.
This global warming business amounts to meddling with all that is good and pure in the world. I mean, really. You're dead-set to fuck with everything I've spent painstaking aeons perfecting. This is the last, the latest, in a long line of ignominy that I won’t put up with. With your crude , hacking techniques at trying to learn mastery of the universal arts you’ve not simply ruined the entire neighbourhood; oh, no, no half measures for you lot - you’ve successfully annihilated the entire fucking district to an extent that ensures it will remain uninhabitable for generations to come. After all I’ve done for you.
Tsk, tsk, manchild.
Needle that broke the camel’s back? The last straw? Ha! No, no, no. Let’s not beat about the scorched bush. You no longer trade in such delicacies anymore, not since your bloated sense of importance has overshadowed the important issues and your tributes rain down on the altar of Mammon. You can’t see clearly now, now that the reign of commerce is all-pervading and limitless, inveigled as it is into the hearts of men, wherever they are found, near or far. Save some wild Indios in the Amazonas, but we can all rest assured you'll get there too, soon.
You suckers, trying to buy your way outta this shithole existence – what, nobody ever tell you that you can’t dig your way out a hole? Some upbringing you had, and there’s the face of it – you’ve lost your way, man, you’ve forgotten the good and retained the evil - you’re not holding on to the important things anymore. It’s convenience or death, and we all know which one you’re likely to leap at. From poor loins spring paupers, and you lot have pissed away your inheritance willy-nilly with no regard for the future, so it’s the poorhouse for you. Morally bankrupt, spiritually impoverished, left to huddle in the moral wastelands, living in clapboard, eating hard cheese - hardly the hearty and homely stew that feeds knowledge and self-respect. If you had self-respect you’d not go shitting where you lay, yet shit you do, like a monkey after too much green mango.
So I say to you – you’re on your own, manchild. I’m done with this endless playground game you wanna play, I’m off and on my way. You’re quite welcome to the old place, even though I know you’ll only let it go to ruin. No doubt by the time I come back for a last long nostalgic look – sentimental fool that I am - the roof will be caved in, the windows will stare blankly back, cats will sun themselves on tumbledown masonry, the plumbing will piss green streaks all the way down the walls and my garden will be rank, a kingdom of thorns and poisonous vines.
No, it’s the high road for me and you’re left to your own doubtful devices.
And I won’t want to be back then, not after your arrogance has finally subsided into regret and pleading, when you realise your mistakes and have swallowed that great golden ball of pride that gives such succour now. It’ll be too little, too late. You’ve only got yourselves to blame.
Sayonara, suckers. Elvis is on the next bird outta here.

The Big Cheese