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By P.J. Jackson
Dear Mike,
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.
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