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The Lynch Letter

Rants, Raves and Ripostes
from LPP's Head Honcho



Seen from the ferry boat in the early morning, it no longer whispers of the fantastic success and eternal youth.... I can only cry out that I have lost my splendid mirage."
F. Scott Fitzgerald

When I wake up in the morning I use the horizon as a barometer. I've got a killer view. Hazy? Cloudy? Clear? Look out the window; check out the harbor. The Lady there? Okay, but she's kinda close. The Towers? If I can see 'em, the day won't necessarily suck. GWB? No worries, mate. The day'll be great.

Now, there's just this filthy, smoking hole on my horizon at the second touchstone of my whacked meteorological methodology. It's worse at night. At night, the rescue effort's lights glow above that wretched Hell's Gate and illuminates the seemingly endless pyre.

Minimum, one hundred I knew are dead over there. Minimum.

It's impossible for me to handle that. Those are just the ones that I knew their names. There are scores more who I knew as faces that never managed to make my brain attach an honorific, just a vernacular "Yo"; "Pal"; "Buddy"; Chief"; "Darla", or some other such lazy-assed address to someone you have a happenstance relationship with because of proximity and regularity.

And because there are few gray areas in my emotional landscape, when all this reality came storming down my pipe I reacted along the sometime idiotic checklist that makes up my rules.

Click for full image

Burn 'em down. Here, there, wherever. Just burn 'em down straight to the ground. Take the governor off the Israeli Army and let their throttle loose.

You want "jihad"? Let's get it on. Let's get the fucking 2K1 Crusade in gear. Set the UN packing their asses off to Geneva or Brussels and beat them war drums for all they are worth. Break out the high, heavy ordinance. Tell these little pierced-lip shits hiding from the world on tax paid college campuses it's time to get off the stick and start swinging the son of a bitch. Beat those assholes who rewrote"Wish You Were Here" on the Hollywood telethon about the head with Pete Townshead's Woodstock guitar (the one he shoved up Abby Hoffman's ass).

I know, I know, I know...this ain't the way of the New Age.

Well, this is not the New Age. This is the same story told immemorial: There are us, and there are Them.

Fuck Them. Burn 'em down to the ground. Terrible Swift Sword time.

And smoke out all the elite bastards of academe: the revisionists, the protester class, the deconstructionalists, the diversity-istas, the ones who rail against "dead white European males" and offer homage to people whose very core of thought is that America should be beaten into dust for the mere temerity of existing Your heroes will blow you up just as soon as "flag-wavers" like yours truly. Probably, they'll get a little more glee from watching your bones go to dust, since your benighted asininity allowed them the purchase on our shores that made their jobs all the more simple. You dweebs call it "diversity." It once was known as "the fifth column."

Pardon me if this pisses you off, these words of mine. But all the bones in my body tell me to go stock up on shells and just go bonkers on the mosque a few blocks from where I usually would be hanging out and bitching about the freaking primaries.

Nothing is normal. Ever again.



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