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Mr. Wolfe, You Are SUCH a Nancy Boy

Okay, I understand you needed a lead-in for your piece on Hunter, but fer chrissakes:

When I finally met Mr. King, he was in Miami playing, along with Amy Tan, in a jook-house band called the Remainders.

Look, you prissy twit, the word is JUKE. Drop the Oxford snotty shit, you fucking git. And it ain’t ever been a “house,” it’s a goddamn JOINT. And those fucking embarrassments known as the Remainders would be beaten to death with long necked Buds if they ever tried to hoist their shit in one of the aboved referenced places that hadn’t been thoroughly sterilized by a team of their publishers PR whores. I know; I have endured their horrible act. I burned a couple of Steven King paperbacks as payback.

Now, Mr. Vanilla Suit and Oh So Pithy Wit, you drag your ass down to Jersey and apologize to Southside Johnny.

Other than that, not bad an essay, except you got the Altamont murder wrong. And it reads like a made up load of shit, but the WSJ editors probably lack the balls to call you on anything you toss across their transom. I mean, there’s only fucking film of the guy getting stabbed, and they let you walk on the pool cues. You could have scribbled “I am a Dandy who gets buggered in Miami” and they would have let that shit slide…until your dearest beard called them up and queered the deal.

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