Dear Michael Crichton,
You continue to inspire. Not only did you help convince Dear Leader that global warming is nothing more than a treehugger hoax, but now your vindictive ways have set a new, glorious standard for the fine and unappreciated art of petty revenge. Writing up a critic as a child rapist in your latest novel was a stroke of pure genius. Not many novelists would have had the courage to conjure up an entirely unnecessary character in a book just to get back at a real-life adversary, but you didn’t shy away from the task at hand. I think you’re on to something here, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t just run with it. How about Al Gore as a serial killer or Barbara Boxer as a cannibal?
The artful passage in your book involving the sodomy of a two-year old by a liberal pundit did lose me my lunch, and I worry that you may lose some of your fans. I mean, not everyone appreciates graphic descriptions of toddler rape, even if it’s in the service of furthering the great right-wing agenda. But these are not times for the squeamish, and you know what they say: “if you can’t take the heat…”
Your remaining fans should appreciate the great service you’ve done them here. While they may be busy legitimately worrying about the sexual preference of their local evangelists and elected GOP congressmen, you’re hard at work depicting their enemies as child molesters.
I have the greatest respect for your continued tilting at the windmill that is global warming while at the same time redefining notions of good taste and common decency, and I remain,
Yours truly,
