An invitation to sodomy

Enough of this peace/love B.S... let's talk about hatred. Let's talk about these apple-cheeked clowns in red berets on their mountain bikes, rolling around Bourbon St.: the "Guardian Angels." Who the fuck are you kids? Are you from here? Do you live here? I thought the "Guardian Angels" were supposed to be grizzled ex-gang-members, but all y'all look like national guard rejects from Iowa. Where are the Guardian Angels recruiting from these days, Jesus Camp? Besides looking barely old enough to vote, why are you all 100-pound doofuses with skin the color of the pope's thighs?

Seeing you self-importantly "patrolling" the quarter and the marigny with your color-matched web gear and sheafs of plastic flexi-cuffs calls to mind a cross between mormon missionary boys, eagle scouts, and santa's workshop elves, three demographics that have in common 1.) me hating them and 2.) me wanting to sodomize them. It's one of those complicated lust-hate relationships, and you Cherry Lane paramilitary wanna-bes in bike shorts are all three combined. I don't know anybody who takes you seriously; police certainly don't. They know as well as anyone that you're just amateur-hour liabilities. Who sent you teeny-boppers here to "protect" New Orleans from itself? Go home. Or come by the Rail sometime when I'm working and we'll go out in the parking lot and have a nice old knock-down scrap, and then enjoy angry sweaty sex in the gravel, with your trim, hairy do-gooder ankles flexi-cuffed behind your neck. If this sounds like a good time to you, come holler at me. Otherwise, go get a real job back in whatever whitebread hell-hole spawned you.

Love,

the d-block