|Haha! Yeah, "Search and Destroy" my vagina! Hahaha!|
Sitting here like a loaded gun
Waiting to go off
I've got nothing to do
But shoot my mouth off
Gimme gimme gimme
Give me some more
Gimme gimme gimme
Don't ask what for
I gotta go out
Get something for my head
If I keep on doing this
I'm gonna end up dead
~ Black Flag
*An Open Letter To Henry Rollins*
You've always seemed really fun. At least, really funny. At least, terrifyingly, yet arousingly, insane.
And mmmm, BOY, you haven’t changed.
But the thousand-yard restraining order you’ve acquired against me in the last couple of years has meant lonely nights, too much wine, and insecurity about the direction of our future relationship your superstar career.
So! Where to now, my sweet buttercup?
Another screaming album? (Please?) More of your late night talk show that I don’t get in my country but I am working on acquiring by illegally hacking a satellite feed through my government’s secret security forces? (Please?) An appearance on Bill Maher?
Um, darling...who the fuck is Bill Maher?
You’re anything but stupid, my sweet carrot, and by now you must see the writing on the wall. The beltway in-crowd are FUCKING BORING, and you are far better looking than they are, with a degree in godliness. Fuck them.
I mean, really, Henry. Where can it go from here?
Fear not, Diddums, for I think I have the answer. In fact, I know I do.
I want to hire you, Henry. I want you to come and work for me. I want you to be my Henry Friday. My housekeeper, beekeeper, floor, chimney and mine sweeper. My window washing, grocery buying, dinner cooking, obsequious, submissive, concubine domestic. You will laugh at my friends, drink heavily at my victories, and be shocked by my many failures. You will praise my phenomenal good looks, and vow great harm on all those who budge in front of me in the line-up at Starbucks. You will treat me like a goddess, a guru-ess, a mentor-ess, and the best night in the sack you’ve EVER had. You will carry my purse, wash your MY car, walk my teacup St. Bernard, and turn your savings over to me. You will massage my aching shoulders as I watch Susan Sarandon on t.v., tell me who the fuck Jane Fonda is, and loofah Barbara Streisand’s stretch marks. (You don’t want to loofah a lay woman’s stretch marks. Absolutely disgusting.)
But most of all, Henry, you will SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I can offer you a life of obedient servitude on YOUR compound, since my house sucks. In your time with me, you will learn so much. You will learn that my multiple personalities all have names, and are made up of only the cutest kinds of dangerous sociopaths, serial killer-esque types, and sexual deviants. You will learn that your life with me will be much easier if you are constantly lubricated and pliant. You will learn the meaning of the words “OW, THAT FUCKING HURTS, KAGE”, and you will memorize every line of Anchorman. You will listen to the Spice Girls, Nickleback and that silly little bisexual girl, Justin Bieber, should you EVER disobey me. You’re a figure of fun, Henry, and I’m gonna fuck that fun figure. You will occasionally be allowed to show me who MY daddy is, say for example on your birthday, or on the day Glenn Beck finally explodes into a million pieces, showering us all in crocodile tears and Nazi propaganda posters.
But mostly Henry, my gorgeous Bitsy Pookums, you will just SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Come on, Henry, you fucking psycho.
LET’S DO THIS.
I love you.
Pis.s. Um...who is Ann Coulter?