I sent
this letter to my local paper this morning.
In about a week I shall receive a letter from one James Lancaster. Imagine a Jack Chick who can't draw and can't spell, or a real-life Bob Boudelang, and you've just visualized James Lancaster.
And he's a Bush fan.
When I get my James Lancaster letter, in which I shall be damned to hell at least five times, I shall post it in the Lounge for your amusement.
Sample James Lancaster story: after the second Lancaster letter, the little bastard was proselytizing in the Food Lion parking lot when my wife pulled up in her car. He approached her with a Chick tract in his hand and asked if she knew the Lord. Lori asked the guy if he was James Lancaster. "Yes, yes I am." Lori then told him to quit sending hate mail to our house. "What do you mean?" She then identified herself as my husband; Lancaster went through the fucking roof. Let's see: I'm going to hell, Lori's going to hell for living with me, I'm seven or eight things that obviously I'm not--look, I don't even know where Sodom is much less hang out there, and where the hell is Gomorrah?--and he just went on and on until she told him to screw off and walked away.
I'm looking forward to it, and you should be too.