Saturday, August 22, 2009

Dear Quentin,

Messy bit of a film you've made; or so I hear. Not a review, mind you. Expect I'll be missing Mr. Pitt's blood orgy. So, I'll avoid the rather useless tactic of attempting to review a film I'll never see (although I gather it is a veritable jewgasm of excitement, gore and, sometimes, rather good directing). A Royale With Cheese and probably just as healthy.

No, instead, what I want to do is say something: Thank You.

Seriously. Thanks.

See, from what I hear and read - including the comments of your goodself, Mr. Pitt and others - the movie validates my point of view. Validates the very real need to protect what is sacred: race, tradition, land. Blood and soil, to me and my ilk.

And, oh how gloriously (glouriously to you) you've done it! Sort of porno for you, yes? I imagine you get the same thrill from watching dead Europeans splatter as you do from the sex/porno/horror films you've wandered into of late. A little titillation good for the soul, eh Quinn?

For the rest of us, in the quiet unease of the afterglow, sits the result. The bloody carcass of destroyed families, raped women, decimated cities. "Tomorrow you're homeless, tonight it's a blast," in the words of Mr. Biafra.

You've reminded me that, in the end, we win. We will rise up and strike back. Save the smirks and oh-so-clever lines. In the end, we win with quiet labor, hard work in the face of mounting odds; persistence fueled by an inner core of genetic strength you cannot contaminate.

The strength of my ancestors resides in my soul, in my core. Everything I see and think and do, every action I will ever complete, every thought I will ever think is infused with the blood, toil and wisdom of my honoured family. Victory is ours, it must be ours because by nature it can only be so.

So, thanks Quentin. Thanks for reminding me of my strength, my life and my victory.

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