December 3rd, 2006

pronking sussuration (pic by waywind)


Dear Orson Scott Card,

You're fired.

As a member of the Super Secret Cabal of American Liberals Who Control All Media Everywhere, I'm demanding that you turn in your Professional Science Fiction Writer license. Your hideous political opinions might once have been forgivable, but now your descent into the foam-at-the-mouth wing of the Right has brought you to the unpardonable sin of writing prose that makes people go blind:

Reuben Malich knelt over the body and cried out in the keening wail of deep grief, the anguish of a soul on fire. He tore open the shirt of his uniform and struck himself repeatedly on the chest. This was not part of his training. He had never seen anyone do such a thing, in any culture. Striking himself looked to his fellow soldiers like a kind of madness. But the surviving villagers joined him in grief, or watched him in awe.

Within moments he was back on the job ...

Once I've got my snazzy new artificial eyes in, I plan to search the Internet in hopes that someone is giving you the Left Behind treatment1 you so richly deserve. Until then, please refrain from writing anything more, ever.

Let us pretend all you ever penned was Ender's Game, and think of you fondly as that one-hit wonder who immediately vanished back into obscurity in late 1985. Let us never speak of your wingnut alter ego again.