Wednesday, May 30, 2007

What the hell blog

I've decided to post some things I've written that haven't really found a publisher. Besides having them suck up space on my computer, which they will continue to do, I thought it might be useful to share these with whatever readers there are who might enjoy this sort of thing. Thank you.

This one was inspired by Bill O'Reilly.

The Author Responds
Merle Kessler

Critics are certainly entitled to their opinions, but they should confine them to books, and not the people who wrote them. I should expect such ad hominem claptrap, I suppose, from a website choosing to call itself thissucks.com. Still, one sighs. One shudders. One fears for America, and its new climate of hatchet jobs, meanspirited “blogs,” and cheap shots.

My television talk show, GRIMMIS IN YOUR FACE, is watched by millions on a daily basis. It is not only not “…a sucky new front in the culture wars” as your critic so crudely put it, it is an island of civility in a sea of snide discourse. And John Grimmis is the lone Crusoe gathering like-minded Fridays into the fold.

Yes, I did once punch a hippie on the air, but I was only fulfilling the dreams of millions. I had given her every opportunity to talk turkey, make sense, make her case. She would not stay on message, something snapped, and I clocked her. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of this action. But it certainly was not “totally wack,” as your apparently mindless critic put it.

At any rate, what on earth does this have to do with my book? Though certainly it echoes themes from my show, NOW WHAT, AMERICA? is not only a whole different genre, it reinvents that genre.

I find it interesting that your critic chooses to indulge in character assassination rather than treat my concept of Novelifactualization with the seriousness it deserves. And I spend eighteen pages explaining it! Briefly, Novelifactualizatoin is a process whereby I turn the dross of fiction into hard fact, and vice versa. Nowhere does your critic even mention this.

Instead he accuses me of being a “ravening hack” and of being “scary incoherent.” Where is your evidence? If I am a pioneer in a genre of my own invention, how can there possibly be judgment of how well I handle it? Your ignorance is shameful.

As Nabokov famously said to Thoreau before their final falling out at Finland Station, “If there is a trout in the milk, it is because I put it there.” But no, you lefties always fall back on name-calling when confronted with ideas your feeble brains can’t comprehend. You heard me right, you pussy. I’d like to get you alone in one of those crack-infested alleys you liberals helped to foster, you sonofabitch. But I digress.

As my character/composite, Brick Randall, put it in Chapter Two: “We are the fist, you are just a glove. When the bell rings, somebody’s gonna be toast, and my fingers aren’t gonna be part of the sandwich.” You can try to lay a glove on me, in other words, but your blows are as drifting feathers tickling my face after a childish pillow fight. I remain on the best seller lists, despite your quibbles.

Yes, I am friends with Newt Gingrich, but I am also on a first name basis with many Democratic party operatives. I am independent and blunt. I can be a nice guy, as any of my ex-wives will attest, but if I am disrespected, I can be the howling wind that destroyed Gomorrah, Krakatoa, and other treacherous regions. Yet I am unfailingly polite.

Even as my fists fall upon you like the twin hammers of God, you will note my soft murmurs of apology. That’s the kind of guy I am. Mano a mano, even stupid activists and trial lawyers learn to respect me. And perhaps, someday, I will learn to respect them, if they ever open their goddam ears to the truth.

A careful reading of NOW WHAT, AMERICA? would reveal that it is the one true book, immune to criticism, carping, and sarcasm. The sooner you unrepentant name-calling neo-Marxist scum realize this, the happier John Grimmis will be. After all, what’s the alternative? A socialist state is what. But that would make YOU happy, wouldn’t it?

Words cannot contain my spite. John Grimmis has tried, but his spite is too unwieldy for the basket of language. And whose fault is that? Yours. I have done my best. I can do no more. I’m loosening my necktie, and walking sadly away. Shaking my head slowly from side to side. Gazing down.

And don’t try to coldcock me from behind, you bastard. I have eyes in the back of my head. I give up on you. You are dead to me. Buy my book!

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