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“I hope you will employ your clever mind to insuring that your freedom to express yourself without fear is preserved.”

Well, I had thought about logging in under another name. but that seems kinda cheesy, so I will just try to behave myself until this stuff passes. I like the idea of a TV series, and I may have to write a pilot myself. I need a good actor to play me; somebody like Harrison Ford maybe, or Clint Eastwood.

You know, somebody who catches the essence of my noble resistance to the evil, maniacal forces of darkness and paranoia, while preserving the manliness and sexiness of the warrior spirit that I exhibit. I see me, sitting there, playing my guitar, writing poetry, and studying the arcane arts of invisibility and astral projection as the online war between sanity and insanity rages on.

Occasionally, young un-tutored chicks come to my atelier/arsenal for instruction in poetry, Jungian archetypes, and certain uh er, uh “Tantric” things. There is the occasion casual affair. You know, kind of a conservative version of Billy Jack.

Then, one day, Jim Thompson, freep mails me. “Parsy, I’m overrun with these goobers! Please! I need you back! At first, I resist, saying “No, my days of Holy War are behind me. I am working on an an epic verse saga of Parsifal and the Flower Maidens.” He persists, and I relent. I return just in time to ward a vicious attack based on the typical mis-interpretation of an obscure irrelevant statute.

As usual, I throw myself into the fray and drive back the secret OBOTS, thus saving conservatism, democracy, Free Republic, and the Tea Party from embarrassment. Two women, who bear a passing physical resemblance to Sarah and Michelle, visit my studio, where we play with my guns. The Sarah look-alike is particularly impressed with the Mosin Nagent M44, and says, “All that time I spent looking out across the ice floes, I never realized there were weapons like this, so powerful -— so close.” Michelles goes ga-ga over the Belgian made Browning. I promise to write her a poem. We all exchange numbers. The episode ends.

That’s how I visualize it.

parsy, who asks, “Did I digress?”