Dear Henry Rollins,
You used to be cool — way back when you fronted the greatest punk band ever (The Vandals), and well before you became a tedious purveyor of the "spoken word." But now I see you for what you truly are: a wuss.
Roll tape, roll-tapers:
(BEGIN VIDEO TAPE)
HENRY ROLLINS: Dear Ann, you used to be fun; at least funny. At least gently and amusingly insane. But girlfriend, you've changed. The thousand-yard stare you've acquired in the last couple of years says lonely nights, too much wine and insecurity about the future of your career.
Where to now, my sweet fascist? Another one of your silly books? More hilarious appearances on "Hannity & Colmes"?
You'll never have a real place with the Beltway in-crowd, as they see you as a Northeastern, hickoid, pro-wrestler, NASCAR-type with a degree from Cornell.
I mean, really, Ann; where can it go from here?
Ann, I think I have the answer, in fact, I know I do.
You will treat me like a god, a guru, a mentor — and the best night in the sack you've ever had. You will carry my bags, wash my cars, walk my dogs and turn your savings over to me. You will massage Susan Sarandon's aching shoulders, whip up vegan delights for Hanoi Jane Fonda and loofah Barbra Streisand's stretch marks.
But most of all, Ann, you will just shut the BLEEP up.
(END VIDEO TAPE)
An open letter to Coulter? I guess this is how you define "edgy:" Being five years too late with a feeble swing at the go-to punching bag for the predictable progressive hack.
Calling her "girlfriend?" Replacing man with Ann? You've left no cliche unturned.
Still, your audience laps it up. See, you don't just preach to the choir — you give it a reach around.
During your rant, you tell Ann, "you used to be funny," mocking her "silly books" and on her career you wonder, "where can it go from here?"
The same can all be said for you — except the "used to be funny part." And something tells me this is more about you, than her.
You're a wuss.
Last night, the great comic Jim Norton pointed it out to me: You're a wannabe comedian who avoids the risk of being a comedian. Instead, you hide behind this "spoken word" schtick. That way, if no one laughs, it wasn't supposed to be funny anyway.
Castratos have more balls.
One thing you have to give Ann — she ventures into enemy territory. You don't. And that's why you hate her — she's better at being you, than you are.
But at least you gained cache at the Daily Kos.
Forget your music — this is what makes you truly, a punk.
And if you disagree with it, then you sir are worse than Hitler.