Dear George,
It’s guy time, again! The manly man is back in vogue in all his steak-scarfing, beer-belching, can-crunching glory. Gone is the touch-feely bullshit that looked down its nose at masculine virtue. Manhood returned tagging along behind your hemorrhoidal strut across the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln, and now it appears likely that the testeronic torch will be passed to Red-Meat Rudy who will continue your tradition of bilious ass kicking.
The cornerstone of our manly virtues is the paranoid belief that the world is out to screw us, so we’d damn well better screw it first. It is a waste of time talking to your enemy when you can plant your steel-toed boot in his balls. Psycho violence solves all! Patriarchy is back and foaming at the mouth.
It takes a real man to run a Corporatist State—a man who can stand tall and brave when confronted with the suffering of the weak and the unfortunate who are not strong enough to compete in the market place that is no more. Corporatism is capitalism with a terminal dose of greed.
You and Red-Meat are male fantasy made real. Most men live lives of quiet desperation where they must swallow their humiliation and anger as an amoral bureaucracy grinds their souls to dust. They can’t lash out so they lose themselves in a fantasy world where their steel fists and quiet courage right all wrongs.
You and Red-Meat are their salvation. Through you, they are able to kick the collective asses of the frail and the puny. Being able to trash brownskins vicariously diverts their masculine rage away from the real cause of their misery—the corporatist elites.
The ultimate expression of masculine glory is to go down in flames. You’ve doused America in gasoline. All you need do is hand the matchbook to Red-Meat.
God bless our frat boys; long may they rule!
Your admirer,
Belacqua Jones
7:15:13 AM 
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