Dear New York Times,
No thank you.
And may you all die of painful, agonizing pancreatic cancer, shrieking for days and writhing on the ground, blood and spittle flying from your evil twisted mouths.
Love,
Laz
Please, oh please, let the NYT writer be at the head of the spear that comes to take my guns. He/she will be headed to the funeral home in a very reclined position!