I won’t enlist.  Recruit in Harlem.

Dear Ben,

You know, it’s not completely your fault.  They carefuly bred you to be a racist wingnut who doesn’t understand basic science and post-enlightenment thought.  Like that guy in The Silence of the Lambs who bred the moths.  They kept you home and fed you special wingnut bullshit and anti-commie Kool-aid to create just the right sort of smugly thoughtless wanker (Note:  Anti-communism is a little dated.  Try to keep up).

I almost feel sorry for you.  You are now and henceforth to be on the serious receiving end of a shitstorm of scrutiny that you are not prepared by life to handle.  I feel for you and your tender macho posturing, so evident today in your defensive, incoherent whine about. . . well, something about masculinity.  You need to lighten up.  Maybe accompany Ken to a drag show?  He’ll show you the straps. . . er, I mean the ropes.

But then again, I don’t feel sorry for you.  Though you’ve been set up by your upbringing and Daddy’s connections (hint: Abramoff) to find your niche as the banner boy for the failed American journalistic establishment that has become today’s conservative establishment media, you’re not a kid anymore.  You’re an adult.  And a Yellow Elephant.  And a racist little shit.  And a symptom of everything wrong with the Post and the conservative establishment media.

Have you noticed, when the conservative establishment media talks about "blogs," they refer to blogs that oppose the reigning government media establishment?  Did you notice that sites like your Racist Red State don’t even figure into the popular discussion of "blogs" and "bloggers" anymore?  You know why that is?

Because conservative bloggers have scant following except among wingnut extremists and their media/government establishment sugar daddies.  Our traffic expands, while yours falls or stagnates.  Conservative blogs have no cultural relevance or resonance anymore.  They are dead.  We are where the action is.  And to save your pasty, invariably white asses, the establishment boys are taking you in.  Sully is at Time.  Now you got the Post gig.  Welcome home.  The new boss is the old boss.  And it’s da white man boss at the WaPo.  No wonder they hired a little wingnut racist.  I wonder what African American subscribers in DC and its nearby suburbs will think?


I really can’t pity you because your 101st Fighting Keyboardist bravado is not just pathetic, its deadly, given your politics, war cheerleading and prime fighting age.  Call of Duty II doesn’t count.

I have a proposition for you, a joint journalistic venture to bridge the divide between you and your bedwetter playmates on the one hand and us defenders of America on the other.  I think you should expand to documentary filmmaking, and I’m proud to say we’re here to help.

Pick a day, any day. Visit the recovering, injured Iraq vets at Walter Reed.  Tell them how much you support their efforts by writing from Daddy’s Arlington home, or wherever it is you hide your porn stash and associated spunk towels nowadays. We here at FDL will supply the camera and cameraman to record all the cheers and choked expressions of ceaseless thanks doubtless to be showered upon you.  Let us know when you want to do it.  We’ll take up a collection right here and make the necessary arrangements. 

No need to thank me.  I want your star to shine brightly.  You are now, after all, the new face of the Washington Post, the exemplar of its 21st century brand.  Woodward is forever disgraced after covering up for the very corrupt criminal class he once exposed while younger. But you personify the new regime. (Note to long suffering WaPo journalists:  I feel your pain. I do.  I’m sorry it’s come to this.  I pray for your eventual liberation.)

So what do you say, Benji?  Ready to expand your media empire to film?  Ready to fulfill your destiny as a star?  Fight the good fight.  Take us up on our offer and put us in our place.

Let’s make a movie!

PS – On second thought, better not hit the drag show circuit with Ken.  It might not be safe.  Go with Rich Tafel.  You’re less his type.  He prefers Latinos. 

UPDATE:  Uh oh.  Stay away from Tafel.  I didn’t know you’re part Latino, as I am.  Didja inherit the swivel hips like I did? 



Pachacutec did not, as is commonly believed, die in 1471. To escape the tragic sight of his successors screwing up the Inca Empire he’d built, he fled east into the Amazon rain forest, where he began chewing lots of funky roots to get higher than Hunter Thompson ever dared. Oddly, these roots gave him not only a killer buzz, but also prolonged his life beyond what any other mortal has known, excluding Novakula. Whatever his doubts of the utility of living long enough to see old friends pop up in museums as mummies, or witness the bizarrely compelling spectacle of Katherine Harris, he’s learned a thing or two along the way. For one thing, he’s learned the importance of not letting morons run a country, having watched the Inca Empire suffer many civil wars requiring the eventual ruler to gain support from the priests and the national military. He now works during fleeting sober moments to build a vibrant progressive movement sufficiently strong and sustainable to drive a pointed stake through the heart of American “conservatism” forever. He enjoys a gay marriage, classic jazz and roots for the New York Mets.