Glenn Beck: I Will Fight You

Dear Glenn Beck,

Greetings, neckless blowhard. My name is Alibaster K. Abthernabther, best selling author, champion yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and rainbow belt in the ancient martial art of Fung Dong.

Frankly, I think you are adorable. Your misguided, delusional worldview is precious. Every time you crack open your mindless Mormon craw, it reminds me of the time my nephew passed wind during Thanksgiving dinner, explaining afterward, "I made a phoot-phoot."

Delightful!

Unfortunately, I will now have to fight you. It's just how it has to be. You pander to fear and you trade in tired stereotypes and outdated theorems. Your beliefs are rooted in blatant falsehoods and organized bigotry. And, frankly, I just don't like the cut of your jib. So, I am forced to punch you square in said jib and plant my foot in your ass - the source of most of your limp theories.

This physical challenge should come as a compliment. Normally, my cyber-missives and hollow threats are reserved for local Dallas-Fort Worth personalities. That you, a national figure of dubious origin, have fallen into my cross hairs is something of an anomaly. Still, this honor comes with a price. I will beat you senseless and it shouldn't take long. Not because I am particularly threatening, but because you are already free and clear of any discernible strain of sense.

I will beat you. You will be beaten. I will hit you with my fists and you will cry from your vagina. Yes, I am claiming that you possess a vagina. Prove me wrong. Mind you, if you e-mail me a picture of your genitals, vaginal or otherwise, I will report you to the appropriate authorities.

So, prepare to have the stuffing beaten out of you, Glenn Beck. I will hit you and I will hit you hard. I will hit you so hard, you will lose your job, you will end up on the street, and you will wish for universal public health care. I will hit you so hard you will forget how to speak English, only to then be identified as an illegal alien and deported to your country of origin, Dickface Island.

I will hit you so hard you will bleed from your face and your ass and your face's ass and the ass of your face. I will hit you and I will hit you and I will hit you. Then I will put you in a car, instruct you to drive to an undisclosed location, then when you arrive at said location I will pull you from your car and beat you some more.

I will punch you in the stomach and I will kick you in the temples. I will punch you and kick you and kick you and punch you. You will be punched. You will be kicked.

Then, I will force you to read a 4th grade social studies text book. I will make you memorize the Constitution of these United States of America. Then, once you have been enlightened as to the true nature of our forefathers' vision, I will fuck you up old school, carefully placing your head against a street curb and then smashing your skull with the stern, downward motion of my foot. You will be curb stomped and you will be curb stomped by me.

Then, if you survive the aforementioned curb stomping, I will stuff you into a circus acrobat's cannon and launch you several feet into the air. You will land in a vacant parking lot, where I will then retrieve your limp, shattered, battered body and proceed to smash every inch of your frame with an aluminum baseball bat.

I will then pack your jellied remains into a mason jar, take a cab to the Fort Worth Zoo, and feed your liquid remnants to a lion or gorilla or crocodile or some such animal. The animal will then digest and excrete you and then, as excrement, you will serve a dual purpose as natural vegetative fertilizer and sustenance for insects.

I will then delete your Wikipedia page and hire a team of Internet hackers to commandeer your website and redirect it to the fan site of noted guitar virtuoso Jeff Beck.

Then I will sex your wife into another dimension because she's way too hot for a pin-dick like you. And she will thank me for raging her nethers with my throbbing meat wand.

After I have done all of this, whatever is left of you will thank me for the pleasure of being on the receiving end of such a glorious, unforgiving beatdown. And I will say, "You are quite welcome."

Yours,
Alibaster K. Abthernabther.