Reader Mail: The Friday Fruitcakes
The hate mail has been a bit slow lately and I'm attributing that to the fact that even delusional Republicans can sense that their party is about as welcome by the American people as Joe Lieberman at a Progressive blogger party.
But one guy I can always count on, is a cowardly little man, who goes only by "V" and who writes to me with mindless drivel and threats on a regular basis.
Here's Mr./Ms. "V" from my inbox just this morning:
You're a friggen asshole. Still up to your old tricks? How about I come to New York and kick your ass?Needless to say, I was so concerned that I forwarded the V-man's terrifying message to my wife and then called her to talk about it. It went something like this:
Wife: So, another right-winger who's tough enough to anonymously challenge you to a fight, but so gutless he can't even give his real name?
Bob: It's to be expected. They're ashamed of who they are.
Wife: Are you afraid?
Bob: Right now, I'm much more afraid that the corner deli will run out of hot pastrami by the time I get there at lunch.
Wife: Do you think he'll come to New York to "kick your ass"?
Bob: If he's like most redneck Republicans, the only way he'll find New York is if he hocks his double-wide trailer and gets a GPS device for his pickup.
Wife: Do you think he ever served in the military and is a fellow Veteran?
Bob: [Laughing uncontrollably for 30 seconds…] Oh, you're serious?
Wife: Well, there's a chance…
Bob: True, but this guy strikes me very much as "Cheney-tough."
Bob: You know, likes war as long as someone else fights it. Makes threats with no risk and no stake in the outcome… That kind of thing.
Wife: What if he actually shows up in Manhattan? Will you meet him and beat him to a pulp?
Bob: Of course not. How do I follow-up on smacking around a loud-mouth, Chickenhawk Republican? Beat out an old lady for a subway seat? Kick a blind man's cane? Steal a little girl's ice cream cone? C'mon.
Wife: Where's this guy from?
Bob: I have no idea. That's the thing with these cowards -- they sound tough, but only when you don’t know who they are or where to find them.
Wife: So you're not worried?
Bob: About the pastrami? Hell, yeah. I gotta go.
Wife: No, about Mr. V.
Bob: No. I figure a yokel like that will either get killed driving in Manhattan or get run down on the street because he can't figure out our complex walk/don't walk system.
Wife: Well, I'm glad you're not afraid.
Bob: Wait, I am. What if the deli runs out of rye bread?