F.Y.I.

I don't know how much of a chance there is that I'll die in a terrorist attack someday, but if it does happen, let me say in advance, to any right-wing blogger who wants to bask in self-satisfaction by waving my remains around and posturing:

Go fuck yourself. I will not be your bloody shirt.

If terrorists kill me, I don't know what the meaning of my life or my death will have been, but I won't have lived and died just so you can pound your chest and try to make all the world believe that no one hates my killers more than you do, that no one grieves for me more than you do.

Michelle Malkin says of her 9/11 "honoree," Giovanna Porras,

I will not forget her.

Show of hands: Anyone believe that?

I think I now understand why right-wingers were so exercised about what they perceived as fake grief and fake righteous indignation during the recent fighting in Lebanon: It was pure projection on their part. For five years, they've been wallowing in fake grief and fake righteous indignation. They assumed every show of anger and tears they saw on a pile of rubble in Lebanon was as phony as their own displays of anger and tears since fall 2001.

Today is a day for right-wingers to try to compete to see who can brandish the most bathos and puffed-up rage. They're not angry. They're digging it. They love the sense of pure moral superiority they get from 9/11.

I'm also reminded of one of the key figures in a pre-9/11 news event, Marisleysis Gonzalez. She thought the way you showed love, the way you showed that you deserved to be a custodian, was to rush before the public and weep with rage. Right-wingers have done the same thing in trying to become the custodians of 9/11 -- but if terrorists ever get me, they'd better not try it in my case.

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