Destroy the stupid people

I can somewhat sympathize with your desire to destroy stupid people, Mr. Lynch. There comes a time in every young man's life when it is no longer enough simply to bite the heads off chocolate Easter bunnies or to set fire to his sister's dolls. He must taste blood. Not just any blood, either. He has already had it up to here with clumsily biting his lip while trying to negotiate his way through a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and tasting his own blood's rich peanutty goodness. That thrill is long faded.

If you, Mr. Lynch, are a young man such as the one I have in mind, then you are built for finer things, comparable to the fine sorts of things that can be widely seen in manly rough-and-tumble action-adventure television programs and computer games, meekly rated by namby-pamby censors as suitable only for men and women who shave. Hah! You scorn them and their dowdy ways. Not for you, Mr. Lynch, the tame life, shooting dogs with bb guns, who, if their coat is even a slightly shaggy scarcely notice a bb unless you by chance land a shot to the muzzle. What's the point in that, you so pointedly ask. I'll tell you: nothing.

You, Mr. Lynch, were obviously fit and fashioned by the diety to tote a gun, or at the very least to feel the surge of power all young men feel when they pulp a stupid person's head with a midsize coupe (a thrill, I might add, you cannot get by pulping a melon, including a watermelon -- even when the watermelon gushes out red juice, because [and here is the point of my parenthetical outpouring] who ever heard of a human being with a green-and-white striped, comically bulbous head AND even if such people did exist and were properly stupid, they couldn't cry or shreik because watermelon people would be too dumb to have mouths or eyes, but would just have blobby, featureless stripe-heads). But the red juice part is, I admit, nice.

Yes. Armed with only a driver's permit and a bad attitude, Mr. Lynch, you have proved yourself fit to join the few, the proud, the drunken louts and bottle pissers of Ask A Drunk. All we ask is that you buy us a few (six) rounds down the pub to settle the deal. You can wait in the car.

Barring that, we might accept six or seven mostly full bottles of liquor swiped from your parents' stash, provided (and this is important!) you do not save yourself trouble by pouring together all the dregs of various kinds of flavored schnapps and passing them off as Drambuie. Don't even think about it. And, if you accidentally think about it, don't do it! We can tell the difference.

Your hazing can wait until we get a streak of filthy weather. If you need us, we'll be down at the pub.

Take note of this: my friend Forrester said about a site called www.specialchild.org. Yeah, it makes me feel good, much less thankful about the stuff that we fellow drunks have.

Good night, and good hunting. I'll find a way to get to my parents' stash of lovely wine coolers; they're not big on schnapps.

Thank you for your submission for our new magazine, "Ask A Drunk presents The Wobbliest Grammar vs. The Most Provocative Statements". As you must be aware, the internet is rife with the kind of submission you have put forward. However, this is no reason to be discouraged as you seem to have a distinct stylistic voice that needs applauding.

Unfortunately we have letters from the estates of both renowned Czech businessman Fuckin Parapolegics and the esteemed Navahoe Chief Multiple Schlerosis detailing exactly what their lawyers will do to us if we print your scintillating brand of reactionary godless filth.

We are, however, considering you for a postition on our staff, but feel that the close examination of your food intake, outside interests and tastes in pornography make for a disturbing psychological profile, not indeed too far removed from one Mr. Neil Buchanan of ITV's Art Attack. Which just simply will not do.

Yours,

Theodore J. Lynskey, Battlefield Surgeon.