Dear Wingnut Fuckhelmets

When Charles fucking Johnson is starting to sound like the voice of fucking reason, you need to step back a bit and do a little reflection. Your fucking party–your fucking MOVEMENT–is in complete shambles. And pinning your 2010 (and 2012) hopes on tapping the Jerry Springer wing of the party is, um, well, yeah (although the increasingly-ugly trailer-park feud between the Palins and the Johnstons makes for AWESOME daytime TV viewing–who says the GOP doesn’t give a steaming pile of elephant crap about the needs of unemployed American workers?)

In other words, less teabagging and unhinged black helicopter rhetoric, more rebuilding — y’all are gonna give Patrick Ruffini a fucking aneurysm.

Wait — what am I saying? Please, KEEP doing what you’re doing; me and my socialistcommiemaoistredistributionist fellow travellers can’t help but get off watching movement conservatism self-destruct in such a spectacularly absurd–and highly public–manner (also, fuck Patrick Ruffini). Seriously, who needs The Onion or SNL when you have Glenn Beck and Michele Bachmann bringin’ teh schadenfreude-infused lulz?

Of course, it all stops seeming so fucking funny when someone who isn’t in on the joke ends up taking things a bit too far and people end up, y’know, dying. Imagine that–words actually have meaning; actions have consequences. Would that y’all took your responsibility as thought leaders (snicker) seriously.

Yeah, and a dapple-gray pony clad in golden horseshoes.

hugs and handjobs,

matttbastard

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