The War Ends

To Writing About Writing and the People of Earth:

It is with a heavy heart and crushed sense of righteousness that I must now sue for an armistice and eventual cessation of hostilities.  Though it is my people's way to dimensionally invade words we find that are corrupted with the pretentious, and Chris was the worst we had ever seen, we didn't think through how incensed we were and our lack of preparation cost us.  I do not say this simply to give us time to prepare, of course.  Both myself and the inner circle have deemed your world far too costly to invade.

Between the thermonuclear device you tricked us into bringing back to our main dimensional soldiery training facility, and the army of pLink clones that invaded and spread across the world with their fantastic aptitude at killing us, and the army of ninjas literally waiting for us when we finally did manage to mount a counter-offensive, we simply do not have the resources, political will, or population to maintain a sustained struggle, and certainly not to survive a war of attrition.

We offer you this compromise: if you will stop doing experiments that permeate the space time fabric and broadcasting your pretentious crap to our world, we will make restitutions in the full amount of the research and development you, did on space/time, which as I understand it is sixteen trillion, four hundred and eighty billion, three hundred and fifty million times the annual budget of Writing About Writing...give or take a couple billion.  My understanding is that you only went so over budget in the first place due to a carelessly used cliche and the grotesque misunderstanding by your R&D's head scientist.  Now you can funnel all your efforts into pLink's optic enhancement beam projectors, which reveal hidden doors that look like walls.  (Or whatever else you want to develop.)  We will place a quarantine beacon on your world as a warning for all time, and my race will, simply put, never bother you again.

In a word, we surrender.

-Emperor Glick.
-Endorsed by the Octorian High Council

P.S. I would be remiss if I didn't at least mention that there's a general named Gilgish who can't let go of the war, still thinks you're too pretentious to live, has gone rogue, and is probably going to come and try to kill you all.  Sorry about that.  Kthxbai.