- I drew this crude sketch of Breitbart. Thirteen days later, he was dead. Because I am a fucking space warlock.
War has been described something like this: unbearable tedium, punctuated by short bursts of absolute terror. Which is a microcosm of life itself, if you think too hard about it. Both are at once unpredictable and tiresome, and both stir armchair assassins full of empty (laughable) bravado who wave their doughy fists at evils safely on other continents—men whom it would be an unpleasant chore to envision running more than ten feet without gasping like goldfish. All their energy is spent barking, their voices probing hoarsely where their pale, enfeebled bodies dare not. Through this phenomenon, we endured the sleaze, contrivance (and physical threats!) of an effeminate, sneering attack dog for corporate scum, who maintained the personality—and water retention—of an oppressed midwestern woman permanently on the rag. Occasionally, life throws us a bone. Or some bones—in this case, the skeleton of the marshmallow man himself, which will soon be supporting so much melted blubber.