A desperate plea from the Bob's Big Boy statues of the greater Las Vegas area to (still) attorney general Alberto Gonzales:

Mr. Gonzales, you're not a popular man. You're oddly boyish looking and not quite human-sized. The general public has tired of you. We have a lot in common you and we, and so, we hope you'll set aside a moment to hear us out.

People don't think about us Bob's Big Boy statues much anymore, and that's fine. We understand that. We're corporate icons of a bygone era. All we wanted was to fade away gracefully-- maybe enjoy the occasional pop cultural nod from the Simpsons or David Lynch. We'll happily endure the bleaching of the brutal dessert sun, the cracking and peeling of our aging fiberglass bodies, and the random sad bunch of drunken frat boys with camera phones who all think they're the first to pretend that we're raping them from behind. We know who we are. We were built as 8 feet tall chubby young boys with our crotches thrusting enthusiastically forward like something censored out of the first seven editions of a William S. Burroughs novel. We can take it. We're Big Boys.

But now, something very dark looms on the horizon. Very, very dark. We ask that you take a moment to consider just how dark, Mr. Gonzales: a giant robot Michael Jackson, mere feet away from chubby young boy statues which are both frozen in a crotch-forward position, and are completely incapable of running the bloody doo-dah fuck away from said robot.

We can't make stuff like this up. We're living a punchline to a joke even Jay Leno would turn down, and it's terrifying.

Mr. Gonzales, you're the last person we need to inform of the political value of making a show of protecting children from predators, and frankly, absolutely nothing we can think of is more showy than stopping a giant robot Michael Jackson from molesting giant fiberglass children out in the dusty den of sin that is Las Vegas. It would make your predecessor's need to spend nearly nine grand covering up the tits on the DOJ statues drop right off the cultural map. Your niche in the judicial culture would be assured.

We recognize that you're a busy man these days, we get that. As I shout this desperate plea to a pasty weblogger wasted on a whole Smurf village of mushrooms yelling at nothing while trying to write this all down on a slice of American cheese with a sharpie marker in an abandoned Big Boy's parking lot in the hot Nevada sun, men with any smidge of political clout who were once willing to make mindless showings of protecting kids from The Evils of Whatever are all busy at the moment fussing about with the war and handing over the internet to the highest bidder and so on, leaving no one but yourself to come to our aid. We choose to see this as providence. Helping us would be helping yourself to a more noble legacy than you face now. Think it over, please, Mr. Gonzales, and quickly; we could be each other's only hope.