Wednesday, July 4, 2018


My Dearest Becky:
      I am writing you from Bowling Green, KY, the site of the infamous massacre of 2016. We are trying to do our best to honor those brave souls before us who had fallen in defense of this great Republic. Curse that brilliant Alex Jones for foiling our plot on the eve of our offensive.
Supplies are already running low and, as a result, morale is running low among the 2nd Massachusetts Cheese Eaters and the New York 13th Wine Swillers are in worse shape than we. Please send more Brie Cheese, Michael Moore DVDs, Dr. Scholl's gel Odor Eaters and skin moisturizer.
     It is my sincerest hope and greatest ambition that a century hence, these selfless sacrifices and valiant struggles of the Liberal Left will one day be recreated with puffy war re-enactors.

My Dearest Becky:
      Despite our supply lines getting cut, we are now within sight of Republican National HQ. We are at present pinned down by the Alabama 112th Goosesteppers but we somehow grimly maintain our resolve.
      I must admit, my dearest, gumption is hard to come by these days with the cutting of the supply lines at the hands of the Sons of Blood and Soil. I dearly miss my Mahler CDs and Riesling Spatlese (2012 vintage or earlier). Personally, I am amazed I have got this far without any new issues of THE NATION and Katrina Vanden Heuvel's delightful yet prescient editorials.
      We are buoyed by the rumor circulating about our camp that the Swedes will soon join the fight as they had their own massacre in 2016.
      Oh dear, I appear to have developed a blister on my foot. If I do not make it home, please give my love to our two children at that progressive, elite boarding school and explain my tragic absence at the next Napa Valley wine train. I pray your Dr. Scholl's Gel Odor Eaters arrive in time.
      All my love,

My Dearest Becky:
      Tragedy hath struck the Massachusetts 2nd Cheese Eaters. Our masseur had cruelly been taken out of commission as, ironically, he had developed a Charley Horse in his right bicep. Our commanding officer, Lt. Gen. Alec Baldwin, had warned him about his workload but the brave man nevertheless persisted in maintaining our muscle tone.
      There is a rumor that he will be relieved by another masseur from the California 54th Ass Pirates but as we are pinned down behind enemy lines by the suppressive fire of the Virginia 45th Very Fine People, that hope is fast fading.
      I live for each and every one of your emails and CARE packages. Did you remember to pack the silk pajamas with Obama's face on the back as I'd requested? And my Dearfoam slippers?
      Our accommodations are just short of beastly. We are billeted in a Super 8 motel just outside Shiloh, where we are poised to rescue those migrant children from their own version of Andersonville. Our insect repellent had been exhausted days ago and we fled the swarm and into the safe and air conditioned but gauche confines of the Super 8.
      I do not know how much longer I can hold on. You and my prized Saul Alinski book collection back home alone give me courage. Give my love to our children Muffy and Brad.

My Dearest Becky:
      At last! Good news as our numbers have been fortified by the timely arrival of the California 37th Cos Players out of San Diego! I daresay I think I speak for us all when I say we cannot wait to see the looks on the faces of the Virginia 19th Pork Rind Eaters when our Imperial Stormtroppers come barrelling down the hill with their clunky costumes and toy ray guns in our next offensive!
      And our Captain Jack Sparrow lookalike will surely disarm the guard at the checkpoint with his impeccable impression of a drunk, homosexual pirate. Hopefully, we will have similar success with our belly dancer, although for the life of me, I cannot divine what movie she is referencing. Curse me for not taking us to more art house cinema movies!
      We are dangerously close to losing precious electrolytes in this ghastly heat. I hope you had remembered to send that Vitamin water or, failing that as I am sure Whole Foods' supplies are now depleted in the war effort, some Gatorade.
      Lt. Col. Kathy Griffin assured us in a podcast that well within a week we will be within sight of the White House and Trump's gleaming name in gold-plated zinc atop that venerable building. I live for the day when we will tear down the cursed Stars and Stripes and replace it with the rainbow LGBT flag.
      All my love,

My Dearest Becky:
      We may have to delay or scale back our most fervent hopes of forcing gay marriage and Sharia law upon all so-called red-blooded Americans. Our Commander in Chief in Exile, Barack Obama, held a TED talk from Hawaii on that subject and informed us that hope and change will have to come incrementally, hopefully with a healthy infusion of bipartisanship. I am somewhat skeptical the Other Side will deal with us in good faith.
      To compound our misery, our treasonous "President" had launched a most unmanly and hardly what one would call a gentlemanly predawn offensive on Twitter, calling us, "Stupidheads and losers." Morale, again, is low and feelings are hurt. We have heard psychological counselors are on their way from the Minnesota 81st Snow Birds but, again, I am cynical.
      Please reinforce my love to Muffy and Brad and inform them, that if I am fortunate enough to make it home alive, I will get them those oboe and piano lessons for which they have so ardently petitioned of me.
      All my love,

My dearest Becky:
      It has now come to this:
      Early this morning at about 3:30 AM, that dastardly traitor Donald Trump blared with portable PA systems from the Arkansas 49th Pig Stickers an unhealthy screech that at first sounded like rabbits being slaughtered. However, a reverse lookup of the audio files reveals that it was merely Ted Nugent's latest agitprop with Sarah Palin on vocals. Still, you can imagine how psychologically devastating this was. It makes for a most unhealthy and maddening earworm.
      Hope is almost lost. Just as we'd re-established our supply lines that had been severed by that dastardly brilliant spymaster Alex Jones, we found our much-needed allocations had been diverted elsewhere. Now, we have to contend with inferior Brie cheese and, God help us, white wine that is not a Riesling. You try swilling a white Zinfandel of unforgivably late vintage from a battered tin cup and tell me what that will do to your spirits!!!
      I am sorry, my dearest, I must be brave for you and our children Muffy and Brad.
      Oh, jumping Jupiter, Now the Super 8's staff tells us the steam room is unavailable! Will this unmitigated Hell never end?!

My Dearest Becky:
      On this 4th of July, the anniversary of our day of independence, the treasonous clown who calls himself the Commander in Chief hath dealt us a blow from which we are unlikely to recover. He summoned the name and legacy, though it is lost to living memory, of Andrew Jackson on the battlefield of Twitter. Reaction has been swift and fierce but an alarmingly large number among our ranks have been swiftly put in Facebook jail and shadowbanned on Twitter. We are currently negotiating for their swift release but with empty hearts and hopes.
      This marks a new nadir in the War Between the Ideologies. The Delaware 79th Corporate Raiders are outraged and hath sworn a vengeance most unrelenting but I do not see how this will rally the Cause as a whole. Indeed, by invoking Jackson's memory, Donald Trump may very well bring about a Second Trail of Tears as we may very well be facing the unhealthy prospect of trudging back to our hippie drug communes with tears streaming down our own faces.
      Only Major General Elizabeth Warren and Col. Kamala Harris give us hope. They have supplanted our Commanding Officer, Lt. Gen. Alec Baldwin when he was hastily summoned back to 30 Rock to impersonate Trump for the upcoming SNL. Trump has responded with going "Woo woo woo, look at my Pocahontas over there!" at his war rallies but they fall on deaf ears on our side.
      Give my love to Muffy and Brad and tell them to maintain their courage by listening to those George Carlin Youtube videos, especially at the point in his career when he was no longer funny but exceedingly bitter.
      All my love,

Dearest Becky:
      The tide hath turned and the numbers may be with us, yet, in time to save the day!
      The sympathies of the nation hath undergone a pendulum shift and our Youtube videos from behind the lines have now gotten six figure views! Somehow, a producer from HBO hath penetrated our lines to offer us a deal for a reality series, with an especially enticing clause in the contract on residuals.
      Gen. Robert Mueller still gives us hope but that hope fades daily as he warns us his legal offensive may take another year and a half to complete. Another year and a half of not exfoliating?! By Zeus, there is only so much a man can take!
      Give my love to our children Muffy and Brad. Tell them the process of Northern and Coastal Reconciliation may yet be at hand when we will at last abolish religious freedom and mandate that everyone have sweaty gay sex and bestiality.
      All my love,

My Dearest Becky:
      Fear not, my sweetest love, all is not lost. Do not listen to those naysayers of the Centrists who are remaining maddeningly neutral in this neverending War Between the Ideologies. They will tell you war is Hell and that it is too hard and that there is only so long a metrosexual liberal male can endure not exfoliating and moisturizing. Do not listen to them or to Commander Clinton, as she sends mixed signals.
      I send good news that will very well decide the fate of the War effort. I have heard rumors that the Vermont 69th Commie Liberals had captured Alex Jones, the fiendishly clever spymaster who had broken news of our plot on the eve of our opening salvo. If this is so, it is with hearty schadenfreude that we will remand him in our POW camp that we had informally named Planet Prison in his dubious honor.
      The end of the war will soon be at hand, my love. These have been the most grueling three hours of my life and hopefully, we will bridge that two mile gap that cruelly keeps us separated. I will have you know I dream of you as I sleep on my hypoallergenic, if flat, pillow at the Super 8.
      All my love,

My Dearest Becky:
      At first, it seemed all our efforts were for naught. The traitor Trump had finally played his endgame: His much-feared Space Force was unleashed upon us. We were under siege for the better part of three hours with a barrage of tweets which were rife with misspellings, grating against my refined, Ivy League-educated liberal ears.
      But when it seemed all was lost, some ingenious nerd who looked like Edward Snowden hacked into one of the space force ships and retweeted one of Trump's deadly tweets and said he was a comely maid from Eastern Europe who was half Melania's age and would love to meet him in room 143 at the Shiloh Super 8.
      Yet, we fear we may be stuck with this man as he sits tied up in a chair and keeps roaring for Big Macs. We have reached out to his side to negotiate the terms of surrender but thus far they do not seem much invested in his safe return.
      Ask Muffy and Brad if they would be interested in having a clown at their upcoming birthday parties. Failing that, I am at a loss as to how to better employ this man.

      All my love,


At July 5, 2018 at 9:52 PM, Anonymous Comrade Rutherford said...

Hilarious, JD. I love your writing!

At July 10, 2018 at 11:17 AM, Blogger jurassicpork said...

Thanks, Comrade.


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