(UPDATE–My address was redacted, at my brother’s request. He has no idea why I did that or why it’s imporatant. But as he once tried to frighten me out of his house by firing a gun in my general direction, I’m caving. He’s infinitely scarier than Brett Kimberlin.)
I’ve blogged anonymously for two years because I cut radical Islam no slack and had young relatives living at the house. Well, they’re not here anymore. Unlike Stacy McCain, I don’t have to protect anyone but my brother. And he’s ten times crazier than me.
So heed the word, Brettster: my name is Marlon McAvoy. Look up the rest yourself; I’m not doing all the work.
Now come and get me.
Even if you do, you pathetic puke, you’re no terrorist. If you kidnapped me and tortured me to death, I’d never be terrified of YOU. Sure, the pain would scare me. I might even die screaming. But through the pain I’d be laughing at the spoiled little punk who can’t think of anything else to do with people. How pitiful is that? You are not a terrorist. You are what masculine terrorists wipe off the bottom of their shoe. You’re the bleating lamb that jihadists bugger for relaxation before blowing themselves up in acts which, while totally evil, are still bad-ass.
In fact, you’re the best argument for cowardly Western decadence that Islam could ever hope for.
You are not a terrorist. You are a little pain-dealing beast that never risks itself. Oooh, such genius! Why hasn’t everyone else thought of that? Oh yeah. They haven’t seared their consciences with a hot iron.
Seriously, Kimberlin, you put the “putz” in “pusillanimous”…and that doesn’t even make sense! But neither do you, except as one of the foul and formless things that escaped Pandora’s Box. You have no more meaning than poison ivy, than rust, than the tinnitus that torments my every waking moment and makes sleep almost impossible.
Yeah. That’s you, Brett. You’re not a terrorist. You’re tinnitus. You’re an endless mindless screech, signifying nothing.
You make Bill Ayers look butch. And these days that bomb-throwing “pig”-hating pissant goes mewling to the cops if someone steps on his lawn. You make that guy look like Charles Durning!
Are you fightin’ mad, Brett? Well, we know your go-to move. So go whine to some real men. Real men, in robes. Go ahead. Tell them I hurt your feelings, that I bruised your self-esteem, that I (sniff) gave you an “owie”. Go ahead…ha ha…”man up”.
God. You’re so pathetic I’m not even enjoying this. It’s like beating up a piñata of a blind kitten, only instead of candy I’ll get showered with lawsuits.
But I guess real men like you fight with nuisance lawfare.
You’re the worst, Brett. The absolute worst. And not “worst” like “most fearsome” or something. More like “the worst excuse for a man that could possibly exist in any universe.” “The worst” as in, “the opposite of the best, in every sense of the word.”
…I am a Christian. I must give you a chance, Brett. Maybe you haven’t murdered your conscience yet. Is your wickedness an attempt to drown out the dying moans of your personal Jiminy Cricket?
Been there. Done that. Failed. Thank God.
So I can tell you, with no little authority: if you actually kill Jiminy there’s nothing left between you and eternal damnation. I can’t say if he’s dead yet, but I guarantee you that little bug is nearly burnt to a crisp by now.
Is your conscience truly gone, Brett? Does any part of you ever know that you’re doing evil. Becoming evil? If your conscience isn’t dead…you could still be great. Reversing Brett Kimberlin’s polarity would make an incredible man indeed. Not one man in a thousand has been worse than me, not one in a million has sunk lower…but you’ve got me beat on all counts. A 180-degree turn makes you a giant of a man.
If your conscience isn’t dead.
If you have murdered it…I’m truly sorry that Brett Kimberlin is gone. But the moral zombie than rampages in his skin can’t be allowed to molest others and spread its disease.
So if you’re still human, Brett…come pray with me. If you are not…well…then let’s get this over with. Mano a monstero, Grendel a Beowulf.
In fact, I insist you come kill me before you ever threaten a family again. Note the “again”, Brett. Here’s what it means:
You’re in the habit of threatening children!
So, your conscience probably is long dead. But swing on by, Kimberlin. If you can’t pray with me, you’re welcome to try and kill me.
Come. And. GET. Me.