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Dear Jamie Raskin:

You pitiful, sniveling excuse for a human being, with the courage of a rotting kumquat and the intellect of a constipated sloth, spewing forth your delusional rhetoric like the foul sewage of a thousand babbling brooks, infested with the parasitic nightmares…

— Black Insurrectionist--I FOLLOW BACK TRUE PATRIOTS (@DocNetyoutube) August 6, 2024

Dear Jamie Raskin:

You pitiful, sniveling excuse for a human being, with the courage of a rotting kumquat and the intellect of a constipated sloth, spewing forth your delusional rhetoric like the foul sewage of a thousand babbling brooks, infested with the parasitic nightmares of a conspiracy-ridden swamp. Your rhetoric of civil war is as laughable as your pathetic attempts to cling to relevance, flailing in the cesspool of your own hyperbolic excrement.

You, Raskin, are the embodiment of the modern liberal, a spineless, quivering mass of gelatinous outrage, so soft and malleable that you could be molded into a paperweight by a toddler with a fistful of Play-Doh and a vendetta against the very concept of integrity. Your face, a contorted mask of perpetual indignation, is more punchable than a piñata at a rage room opening, and yet, even the thought of your fragile features meeting the fist of reality brings a tear to the eye of the most hardened cynic.

You, a man whose political acumen is so lacking it could be outwitted by a bowl of overcooked spaghetti, dare to tarnish the sacred halls of Congress with your squeaky, whiny voice, echoing with the desperation of a drowning kitten in a sea of truth. Your words, as empty as a politician's promise, reek of the fear that emanates from the bowels of a creature who knows nothing but the shadowy embrace of cowardice and deceit.

And if a civil war did break out, we all know you would run and hide like the sniveling, whining flea infested coward that you are. At the first sign of trouble, you would become an Olympic Sprinter and sprint to nearest exit because your manhood is as existent as the dinosaurs. No, you are a throwback to Tammany Hall and the days when corruption and cowardice ruled your party. You are a modern day Boss Dweeb, a pencil neck prick who talks tough but hides behind shield of a protected public servant. Because we all know if you ever had to face a real man in any type of real combat, you would fall harder than a meteorite plummeting through the atmosphere of your own oblivion, shattering into a billion insignificant fragments of cosmic disappointment, each one a testament to the colossal failure that is your existence, leaving behind nothing but a crater of embarrassment so deep it would take the Hubble Telescope to spot your pathetic remnants of self-worth scattered across the desolate wasteland of your irreparable reputation.

Your descent will be so epic, it'll make Icarus' plunge look like a gentle glide on a paper airplane made from the hopes and dreams of the people you represent. The echo of your downfall will resonate through the hollow chambers of the universe, a sonnet to mediocrity, serving as a grim reminder to all who dare to aspire for more than the nothingness you've become. And when you finally hit rock bottom, you'll realize that even gravity felt sorry for you and lessened its pull, hoping you might float away on the whispers of forgotten cowardice.