Dear Dubyaby
Tom Chartier
Boy howdy. My hat is off to you for scoring your second Man of the Year cover of Time Magazine! Yee ha! That took some doing. I'd like to see one of them Dumbocrats pull something that good out of their Greenpeace lunchboxes. No way in tar nation is that gonna happen. As long as you keep playing your cards right in Texas, those losers won't get the chance. But let's cut the crapola and talk turkey. Man of the Year ain't diddly squat. Hell's bells, Time gives out a hundred of them a century. So what's the big deal? Get in line with 99 other guys. Or is it 98 other guys? Who cares? It still makes you just an also ran. I for one can tell you being 99th in line to buy your ribs and six-pack of Lone Star at the Piggly Wiggly is no honor. Maybe standing 99th in line at the welfare office rings a bell. Ooops, I forgot, you've never done that, have you? Try to imagine it anyhow. Besides, the way things are going, pretty soon 99th might be darned close to the front. How about 99th to register for the draft? Ok, settle down. Don't give yourself a hernia. I'm sure you get the idea. So what are ya gonna do about movin' up the ladder to the top of the heap and gittin' some real gravey on them bisquits? Man of the Century. That's the ticket. I'm sure you can improve on the last Man of the Century, Albert Einstein. For one thing, that guy looked like a goofball. You're one impressive city slicker. And then, all ole Albert did was come up with some sort of math problem that don't make no sense nohow! Fooey!
What you need is something really impressive. Yup, the dude who makes the big impact on a whole century can brag some Texas-sized cahones, and we all know you got 'em. Why don't you pull 'em out and show the world? No need to look like Homer Simpson caught in the headlights of Arnold Schwartzenegger's, stretch Hummer. And a word to the wise, Bucko, you gotta keep your eye on that one. So whatcha gonna do to grab that big historical slab of beef? Well, I'll tell you. You gotta clean up the outhouse. You know what I'm talkin' about. It's this Iraqi quagi-thingy. In fact it's not just Iraq. It's any buckaroo evil dictator or, I shudder at the thought, elected official, who fails to bow down to you Marshall Earp. You ain't like that panty-waist "fornicator" who sat in your chair for eight years. You gotta whup their butts and good pardner. Now, now don't get me wrong. You're well on your way over there in Iraq. Already you've killed more than Saddam ever did. Still, Baghdad City ain't exactly safe enough for you and the little lady to stroll down Main Street. Not yet. And that, Chief, is the problem. Sorry if the truth puts a bee up your butt. What are friends for if they don't tell you when the girth ain't tight enough around the horse? Hell, you want to fall off and land face first into a turd blossom? Them towel heads didn't greet us liberators with flowers even though Ken Adelman promised it'd be a cakewalk. Can you believe, those Iraqis are even shootin' back? Fact is, they're shootin' back more and more all the time. They just don't get it. All the beatins', killins' and blowins' up of things is for their own good. I tell ya, you ain't gettin' no respect! Brother it's time to up the ante and earn some. Hell yeah! So here's what you need to do Duke. Push the button. Yup, that shiny red one that beckons to you in your dreams night after night. Push it. Go on. The Armageddon button. The Scour the Earth Clean button. The Start Over button. The one marked "Kingdom Come." The one with Dirty Harry's face on it. Push it! Go ahead, make my day. Now, before it's too late! Now! Now! Now! I'm not pressurin' you! But, to make it easy all you gotta do is fall off that wagon, make yourself a good stiff boilermaker, you know how, and push it like you got a pair.
While you are at it, China's a sound candidate for obliteration. You never know when the Yellow Hoard will come storming over America's pristine borders or develop a stronger currency. How about nukin' San Francisco? I hear tell the entire population is made up of hippies, dope heads, artists, purveyors of an alternative lifestyle, Democrats and more Chinamen all practicing free love! Are they all insane in the membrane? So, one touch of the hooter and KABOOM! They're all out of your hair for keeps! In fact here's another stroke of genius. Nuke all the states that went to Kerry. Which may include some of those states that "re-elected" you. You need to ensure Jeb a free ride in the next election without the need for any shenanigans. Besides, Chicken Little Bush will do whatever you tell him to or you'll kick his ass and he knows it. You are the guy who is man enough to make over the world, politically, morally and literally. Dubya World will be the one you so richly deserve. And you'll be able to hop on all the E-ticket rides for free! Hell, all those nuclear bombs ain't just window dressing! Take 'em out for a spin! Start your new term off with a bang! Oh sure there will be some pathetic souls out there whining about wetlands, speckled newts and human rights, but you know what? After you're done with them, souls is all they gonna be!
Elizabeth Gyllensvard hepped fix up this here letter and make it real purdy. Time Magazine cover art by Mike (in Tokyo) Rogers. January 6, 2005 Tom Chartier [send him mail] played lead guitar in legendary Los Angeles punk band The Rotters for 26 years until their final appearance in January of 2004. He has lived in Tokyo, Japan as well as Los Angeles working in the entertainment industry. He is the primary caregiver of his nine-year-old son and currently resides on Grand Cayman Island in the Caribbean. |
Don't
let any peacenicks get in your way either. You've got a mandate
from God to clean up the world. Blow away Iran, North Korea, Pakistan,
Libya, Afghanistan and all of the Mideast. Don't forget Russia or
any country that might have been included in the Soviet Union. Once
a Red always a Red! Yup, You've got a moral obligation to nuke any
country that might dare to stand in your way. That means France
and Germany too. Heckers, their arrogance alone calls for a good
tar and featherin.' And don't forget, they weren't with us, so they
must be against us, right? Gotta go.
Then
comes the big pay off. You will be a shoo-in for Time Magazine's
Man of the Century, assuming of course, there's anybody left to
read about it.