Dear Mr. Limbaugh

Your recent accusation that Michael J. Fox, a victim of Parkinson's disease, was somehow faking his condition for the cameras has prompted me to remind you that you will never know the sweet taste of Grace Park's ass. That Mr. Fox's TV spot might have been calculated is beyond dispute: all such appearances are calculated. This is what philosophers call "trivially true." But claiming that Fox might be faking his symptoms is beyond contemptible.

Fat men with a lot of power think they can get all the ass they want. Maybe they can get their hands on the low-quality stuff, but when it comes to pure, refined, unadulterated assness, well... this is beyond their power to obtain. Grace Park is not for sale. Besides-- she's married. It gives me great pleasure to dangle her ass in your face, Rush: she will never be yours.

Goddammit. This political statement isn't working out the way I wanted it to. It's making me miserable as well, perhaps more miserable than Rush Limbaugh: I'm a fat man with no power, which means I have even less of a chance to tongue-wash those magnificent cheeks.

No power... except the power of the Force.

The Force is the Force-- of course, of course;
I'm using the Force on my horse, of course
that is, of course, because the horse is greeeaaaaaat at giving head!

Sorry... that just slipped out.

Me and animals. We go waaaaaay back.

_