You're in for a surprise, not a reprise.

Somewhere in the cobwebs of my own purple haze days up around Phuoc Vinh in 1971, I think I may have caught one of your pirate broadcasts. I was too high to be interested. Even then, the day to day business was just too numbing to find anything funny.

But Rab, you must have been smoking something the day you thought it was a good idea to go to Iraq and do your act again. That was then, bro, and this is now.

One of the things that fueled the resentment of being in the army during Vietnam was that most of us grunts were a bunch of very pissed off draftees. There aren't any more draftees, just pissed off stop-loss returnees some of them going on their third tour now. But it's not the same.

Another thing that's different is that with the exception of Tet in '68 and a couple of intense engagements like the A Shau Valley, Hamburger Hill, Khe San, the Cambodia incursion and some others, we 'Nam grunts were never in constant contact with the enemy day in and day out the way our Marines and Army grunts are today in Iraq. Even if there was dope, there's no time and space to let your guard down outside the Green Zone. When you got your game on, you better keep it on, or you'll find yourself in an aluminum can heading for Andrews AFB.

There was a lot of Fuck the Army, back then. Not so much now. I think it surprises many of us Viet Vets that there are no fraggings the way their were during our war. Soldiers who are fed up in Iraq don't kill their officers, they kill themselves instead -- in shocking numbers. Suicides are one of Rumsfeld's dirty secrets about this war. That's what they call "non-combat related death."

Suicide is not easy to riff on when your doing an underground radio comedy show.

And the whores you knew at the Caravelle on Tu Do street are wrinkled up old grandmas now with red beetlenut juice staining their chins. There are no indiginous whores in Iraq for you to draw comedy material from. The GWATS are doing a lot of internacine fucking though. There is fraternization like, your namesake, the rabbits.

There's nothing funny about being in Iraq today. Too much death waiting for you just around a street corner.

This ain't 1971. You won't be breaking in on any bandwidth today, bro. You will not broadcast long if you truly are underground. A fire team will be kicking your door down at gunpoint within hours.

So that means if you are going to do this, you are going to do it with the help of the military PIO, under your press credential. And that means that you aren't really an alternative to what's available, you are just a different flavor of propaganda, another jolly cheerleader, another chirpy do-nut dolly with a yellow smiley face button.

Good luck Mr. Rabbit. I really don't think you know how bad it is over there right now. In any case, you better rent that hotel room by the week instead of the month.

To understand that sad little freak Chris Wallace, you just have to pick up any biography of his towering giant of a father, Mike Wallace. When little Chris was just a boy, his father was absent a lot. For this, he holds his father accountable. His resentment and jealousy against his old man is understandable. Many children of famous parents have had to deal with it.

But unlike most kids in that situation, little Chris never got over it. It would be an understatement to say Chris Wallace hates his father. It's more like a living fetish for him to waste every day of his life to embrace everything his liberal father loathed just for the sake of being contrary to everything Mike Wallace stands for and to become a whiny little corporate media cock-sucker that his father would also loathe.

"Look at me, daddy. Are you ashamed of me? Good! I'll make you sorry you never played catch with me!"

Chris Wallace is a picture of self-hatred and self-destruction. The next time you see him on television, try to have some pity for this pathetic little shit-bag. As a journalist and as a man, he wouldn't amount to a zit on Mike Wallace's ass.

Hey, he's just firming up his base: White racist Virginia. And if all else fails, the Diebold voting machines will take care of the rest.

I grew up in the South. Ya'll got to keep this stuff in perspective.

See, boys is going to be boys. They don't mean no harm, they's just a little wild sometimes ya know? They just raisin' a little hell like good Rebel boys do.

Why stickin' a deer head in some coon's mailbox ain't nuthin' compared to what some a them other boys was doin' back then. I mean, it waren't no lynchin' or nothin' like that.

Down in Virginia some of them guys be get so wild on a Friday night, they'd go ridin' in a car through the colored neighborhood with their headlights off, driving real slow, just to see if they could get them porch monkeys to run hide. Sometime they'd stick baseball bats out the windows and try to whack some black kid upside the head as they drove by. I remember they used to call that "nigger knockin'" Why they'd split their britches laughin'.They didn't mean no harm.

They's just boys.

Welcome to the real Virginia, the real Virginia. The real America.