By P.J. Jackson
I really don’t like you, in fact I can’t stand you and all that you represent.
Your tireless rants directed at minorities, and those unable to defend themselves. Hearing the joy you take in consistently running down those who have little or nothing at all, makes me sick to my stomach.
Sure, I can turn the station; but that would take away the privilege of hearing your wonderful advertisers that support the hate that you spew from your mouth.
I dearly love the city of Houston, and you are a stain on the radio airwaves of this great city. Do you have any compassion? Do you really believe that children should go hungry, that they should have no place to lay their heads at night?
I ask you these things, because you seem to take so much joy in the pain of others. You have lived a damn good life, and that is not what I take issue with; Michael.
Your constant desire to belittle those of few means makes me sad for you, but it also makes me angry at the same time.
The way you talk about ‘black people’ well, that sounds just like a good old boy from the south; and I believe you are truly a racist man.
The endless rants on Shelia Jackson Lee, Roland Martin, The Reverend Al Sharpton are sickening. The way you throw around the ‘N’ word, and laugh while doing it; is appalling to say the least.
I am here to stay Mike, and I will be on your ass every time you make an ‘Oops’ and that is an everyday thing for you.
I wrote this last bit for your buddy Rush, about 6 months ago; but it applies to you as well.
If I was Michael Berry (I Thank God every night I am not) I would write something like this.
I know there are a lot of people out there who are upset about some of the things I've been saying on my radio program lately. My comments have hurt and angered many people in Houston who genuinely care about people, and that hurt and anger will likely never go away. Many of you are probably wondering, "What would compel a human being to say things like that?" Well, here's your answer: I am a very bad person. And, to tell you the truth, I don't really want to be alive anymore.
Try to look at it from my point of view. I have no reason to live. In my 41 years, I've made lots of money, built a great career, and accomplished virtually everything that a man of my limited imagination and worldview could possibly accomplish. And yet, at this point, in no way could you refer to what I'm doing as "living," exactly. I just sort of exist. I derive no real pleasure from life. Oh, sure, I talk a big game about what a golf nut I am and how much I enjoy the taste of a cold beer, but it's all horseshit. Complete and utter horseshit.
I don't enjoy that stuff. I don't enjoy anything. I don't even want to be here. The sadness and regret I feel every waking hour of my life is absolutely unbearable. I am a miserable pig and I do not want to exist.
The irony is that, even if I did die, the hell I would surely be sent to could not possibly be any worse than the bottomless pool of excrement I already paddle around in like some demented, shit-covered walrus. In fact, every time I hear my voice coming through the headphones I nearly gag, and I think, "What am I doing?"
What is wrong with me?
I live in constant terror and that terror informs my every word, thought, and action.
What I should really do is just commit suicide. I have this little Sunday ritual I started around the time I got busted in that gay bar, where I climb into my Jacuzzi and put a gun in my mouth. But I can never work up the guts to pull the trigger. A few times I came close to overdosing on prescription pills, but my damn doctors were always there to save me. If I had any sense, I would just hole myself up in a Motel 6 with a case of Jack Daniel's and slowly drink myself into the gaping maw of death itself.
I've imagined my death a thousand times over, and it's always the same. In my mind's eye, a serene setting comes into view. I see a funeral procession driving down Main Street in Houston Texas, U.S.A. On one side of the street, a collection of sycophants and morons are paying their respects in subliterate, sanctimonious tones. Meanwhile, on the other side of the street, I can just make out the faint image of a young boy, his brow furrowed in confusion, clutching the hand of his father. "Who is that man, Daddy?" he asks as the hearse containing my bloated, lifeless body rolls by. "Who is that person they speak of?" The father will then lower his head and say, "There, my son, go the remains of Michael Berry, the most abominable lump of festering dog shit in the history of American broadcasting. May the likes of him never again soil or tarnish the greatness of our fair country."
Be sure to check out his Twitter Time Line, it will most likely make you sick to your stomach; but you need to see what a sorry ass pig he is.