An honest libertarian writer serves best when moved by hatred, despair, and bile. His highest moral function in a statist society is to scream at the looters, Attila and The Witch Doctor. His every essay should be a simple, logical, variation on the theme of "supercalaphuckyoustatistscuzuareobnoxious."
Any day when he fails to verbally horsewhip a pewling collectivist tyrant is a wasted day.
But this one is just not feeling it. For reasons he can not fathom life has lately been a series of warm fuzzies. Nothing moves him to take up arms and unfurl the black and yellow flag. Maybe too many spoons full of sugar have deballed him, created a literary diabetic.
He hasn't noted that Zimmermann is probably an idiot but not a racist murderer -- nor its corollary, that Sharpton rates an eternity in that hottest Hell reserved for the most fraudulent journalists. He has savaged neither Obama nor Romney. He has failed to document recent justifications for rebuilding the Tyburn gallows to honor the Weimarites Bernanke and Geithner.
He can only hope that the sense of mission will return. Perhaps soon. Perhaps this weeks struggles with the income tax forms will stoke the fires of rage. They usually do.
Meanwhile:
'Ave you ever seen The grass so green? Or a bluer sky?
Screw you, Bert. This crap has got to stop.
