Somebody (our oldest friend "Anonymous") wrote me a comment at 3:00 this morning telling me all about how the talk about policework in my book is wrong and how I really don't know what I'm talking about with my post about the Annie Le case. Fine, we can argue that stuff. Our publisher is new and let's just say my role turned out to be more than just "author"--ask Tom Clancy to edit, proofread, and take the cover photo for his books and see how they turn out. But again, that's something we can go back and forth on. But the thing that pisses me off probably more than anything else in the world is when he says:

"I visited your blog because I'm currently reading your book, am from CT, and wanted to read some Red Sox material written by a fellow CT guy. Not to read Monday morning QBing of a police investigation you know nothing about. Please, let the real life Rocky Patels investigate murders. You stick to baseball."

Let me tell you something, you shit-smearing, baby-butt licking, frog-penis stroking, child-molesting aunt-fucker. I'll write about whatever the fuck I want in my own space. This blog isn't here to impress you. Do you know that I've written this blog for five and a half years just for the pure hell of it, all on my own time, not one cent given to me by anyone? I'm allowed to do whatever I want, and you're allowed to go somewhere else to find what you want to read. Instead of finishing that copy of my book, why don't you use it as a pillow for that secret daughter you've been hiding in your backyard tents and raping? Oh wait, I wouldn't want to slander Anonymous!

So to sum up: I do what I want. Stop raping your daughter. Tell all your friends not to read my book or blog because I definitely don't want to be associated with them either. Go fuck yourself. (I know it's hard with an inverted penis, but you figured it out with that poor leukemia-stricken incestuous daughter of yours.)

You stick to daughter-raping, eh?

Frog dick!