Dear Mr. Newport,
How dare you pretend to be a Confederate man, you ignorant pool of hog santorum. If you knew anything about our dear Confederacy, you'd have guessed the truth about my Burn the Confederate Flag Day operation. It was a covert op I ran for the Confederate Intelligence Bureau (CIB), an organization created in 2004 by the Constitutional Court of the Confederate States of America (Occupied). I was simply collecting intel for use on the The Great and Glorious Day of The Righteous Rogering.
Did you really think you could fool me? Your email bears all the marks of something written by a San Francisco hippy. I mean, my God, you wrote me a poem, and not just any kind of poem, but one of those filthy beatnik poems that don't rhyme and include whole stanzas that simply repeat the word "motherfucker" over and over gain. I had to rent bongos just to read the God damned thing.
Well, I'm telling you, poetry boy. You can stop dragging yourself through the negro streets at dawn, looking for an angry hick, because, by God, you found him, and he's hankering to kick your tye-dyed, clove-cigarette-smoking, birthday-party-stationary-using ass.
The truth is you don't have the right stuff to be a real Confederate, and you know it. That's why you're so angry. You know that you'll never be invited to our secret man-sword crossing parties, a sacred tradition we've been practicing since Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee first drunkenly struck their man-swords together at a party in Fredericksburg.
It's just something we don't share with secularist hippies.
Heterosexually yours,
Gen, JC Christian, patriot
Cup of Pencils Kick in a few bucks if you like what I'm doing. I could really use it.
