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Hey Rebel,
This week, King Charles arrived — part monarch, part stage magician — to declare us independent using nothing but a sash, a throne, and just enough theatre to keep the Can’tadian illusion intact.
Which, of course, demanded a counter-spell.
So I drafted two oaths:
One for the proudly governed and politely obedient.
One for the quietly exiting.
Choose wisely:
** YE ROYAL YES-SIR SCROLL **
(To be read aloud while balancing a teacup on your head and saluting the nearest beaver — or bureaucrat.)
I, [insert your FULL LEGAL NAME], do solemnly and submissively swear to be a good and proper subject of His Majesty King Charles the Third — Lord of the Fancy Sashes, Distributor of Sovereign Illusions, and Cheerful Envoy Dispatched to Convince Me I’m Free.
I vow to play along forever, to treat shiny swords as governing instruments, and to believe with all my heart that true freedom comes rolling in behind a trumpet-blasting carriage covered in glitter.
If royal dress-up is the last story we all agree on, then I shall nod, smile, and declare:
“So be it. All hail the King of Can’tada.”
** THE UNOFFICIAL OATH OF EXIT **
(To be recited barefoot, ideally near compost. No crown required — unless it’s handmade from tinfoil.)
I, [insert your rebel codename, preferably HAM radio-compatible], do solemnly reject the officially mandated polite hallucination.
I renounce all claim to fairy-tale hierarchy, scripted obedience, and the supposed divine right of ceremonially appointed decorative freeloaders.
I pledge allegiance to garlic, grit, and the sacred right to swap zucchini (or other contraband) without permit or surveillance.
My loyalty lies with what grows, ferments, or barters — especially when it’s frowned upon by the Crown and the Criminal Revenue Agency.
I do not clap for capes.
I do not kneel to velvet.
I do not comply.
I compost the script — and slip out the side door they forgot to lock.
This I swear — under no crown, no charter, no state-approved storyline, with full intent to live freely, locally, and lightly off-grid
So help me mud.
** CHOOSE YOUR OATH, REBEL **
Swear whichever one feels right.
Now let's keep moving — before the king claims domain over your compost heap.
Paul (Private) 🕇
Acting Monarch of My Own Damn Tomatoes
TheExitLetter.com
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P.S.
No crowns were dented during the drafting of this letter.
It was written barefoot, fueled by garlic, and entirely off-script.
P.P.S. These oaths aren’t heirlooms — they’re contraband.
Scatter them like dandelion fluff: inboxes, socials, bulletin boards, bathroom stalls. The System can’t crown what it can’t contain.
\/\ BOOST THE SIGNAL /\/
More shares = crowns lose subjects.
