Service Day my rosy red buns..

WARNING! R-RATED POST
Written under the influence of Friday evening post-labor libations.

Via Black Five, the This ain't Hell but you can see it from here blog says that instead of burning Korans on 9/11 like that sh!thouse rat crazy pastor wants to do, he wants to commit Hemingway's works to the torch:

"Hey, Fidel, ya wanna smoke my cigar?"

Unfortunately, I don’t own a Koran, ya know because I’m a right wing pro-war ignorant turd. So instead, I’ll be burning Ernest Hemingway’s collection of short stories “The Snows of Kilimanjaro”. I always hated Hemingway anyway – he was a pretentious old fart who couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag. He sold books because of his lifestyle, not because of any particular writing talent. I can’t write any better, but he always pissed me off. Well, “For Whom The Bell Tolls” was pretty good – but it was an anomaly.

And, oh, he liked Cuba better than the US, so ya know, he’s kind of anti-American. He wasn’t a suicide bomber, but he committed suicide and that’s half of the phrase right there. I know his connection to 9-11 is tenuous, but then so are connections of most of the Muslim world to 9-11.

..you know, he might have hit on a splendid idea. We could get a lot of our former suppressed high school rage out if we burned the books that we hated every 9/11. I mean if The Pantload-in-Chief and his leftist stooge administration can dilute that day’s memory by trying to turn it into one of those fairy, feel-good holidays by deeming it as “service day”, then..

(I am semi-serious.)

Except for the unfortunate opportunity it would present to those on the left to conflate those of us on the right to Nazis, I sure would like to torch Eliot’s Middlemarch and *anything* by Thomas Hardy (especially, Return of the Native) that that consummate idiot junior-year English teacher of mine, Mr Fox, jammed down our throats. We might want to include Steinbeck, Willa Cather and equally dreary drek.

Out of respect, anything by Herman Melvile and Rudyard Kipling and any other author whose testicles dropped before they took up writing, will be banned from our book barbecue. But flouncing, Nancy-Boy writers' works go to the head of the line.

O.K., it's a done deal. I’ll go get the matches and the Pabst, you get the marshmallows and graham crackers. We’ll make somemores and get blind roaring drunk and watch Fahrenheit 451 afterward.

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