The other day I had an interview and one of the questions asked was something to the effect of “Your writing is banal and of a very low caliber; why do you deserve this column more than a real writer?” Clearly, the answer is: I don’t. I’m not good at it, and I can’t imagine why any of you keep coming back for more. In fact, I hate writing. As you all know though, there’s big money in blogging, and I’m just waiting for the day that I can cash in and buy out Halliburton.
This column was presented to me as an opportunity to write about whatever bullshit I deemed worthy. As a result of that misguided decision (on the editor’s part), you get to hear me ramble on about double-double-penetration and cephalopods. Not what anyone would consider literary gold.
Every day I sit there, diddling myself, hoping for a decent topic to come to mind. After a good 20 minutes of watching someone choke on a throbbing muscle the size of my forearm, I clean myself up, and get to typing. Generally there is no structure, standardized format, or style. I pound the keys with my magic Asian fingers, and hope that what appears on the screen is mediocre at best.
I am lambasted for writing about myself on a fairly consistent basis (and by “fairly” I obviously mean “super”), but it seems to rile people up, and I’ve always wanted to check “instigator of race war” off the ol’ bucket list. Really though, it’s hard to know what people want to read about, and I have a somewhat cynical and obnoxious (and by “somewhat” I obviously mean “totally”) persona to maintain. And forget about ever being taken seriously, or not seriously, ever again. I don’t know if it’s that the majority of readers don’t have a sense of humor, or are straight-up retards (and not the fun kind), because who would ever think I was being genuine about how awesome it is to have a steady flow of unwanted discharge pouring out of a hole between your legs?
I guess what I’m trying to say is: fuck you. I know that I’m awful, but I’ve got to pay the bills somehow. And unless you want me all up-ons your identity, I’d suggest that you read the bylines, and after the 60 seconds or so that it takes for you to process that information and what it signifies, skip over my posts. Or, if you’d like to be reminded how someone much less qualified than you has a job that you’d like and maybe even went to school for, keep reading!
Oh, and thank you to those readers that, despite praying for me to be dragged down Murder Alley, come up with comments that are more intelligible than “CHINK GOOK.” You’re the best.