One hundred forty two words about redheads

Readers,

I apologize for my absence. January slipped out of my fingers like a well-basted football; in that time I suffered no fewer than two existential crises, listened to Wagner's Gotterdammerung, confronted my own sense of failure, and my failures, and the act of failing, and turned 30 years old. Coincidence?

For lack of anything else, here are 142 words about redheads:

In the simple unabashed opinion of this author, all redheads should be gathered, transported to locations remote and gassed with poison until they are dead. I would also submit that redhead be strangled at birth with no exceptions. Here is why.

"Gingers" as they are affectionately known, are freaks with horrible translucent skin, appalling freckles and questionable dispositions. They are frequently heard complaining about things like "the sun" and the dearth of cosmetics that suit their ghastly complexions. When they are not complaining, they are intolerably cheery and possess a giddy bray that makes my knuckles whiten with rage.

I propose the systematic extermination of both male and female redheaded persons. It makes sense to detonate a nuclear bomb on Ireland and continue freakward thence, until the globe is scourged of this crimson menace.

Yes, even Amy Adams. I'm serious about this.

Love,

Harvey


P.S. It's just the Wagner.