You Think It's Easy Crapping These Columns Out?
I seen your kind a million times—snot-nose punk, waltzing in here like you’re God’s gift. You think it’s easy being an Internet columnist like me? You think just anyone can come in off the street and write these sometimes monthly editorials, day in and day out? Lemme tell you something, you arrogant little prick: You have no idea what it’s like to do what I do.
Do you believe—do you honestly believe—that you could wake up at 11:30 a.m. every single day, get a scone or a muffin or something, and then maybe go back to bed? It’s just that simple, huh, you piece of shit? You think it’s a walk in the park to think about doing some laundry, but then put on the t-shirt you wore yesterday instead? The one with the pizza stains? It's just a piece of cake to open a blank Word document and then immediately close it to read an old Heathcliff comics collection, right hotshot?
Where do you get off, you insufferable bastard?
I know you better than you know yourself. You think it’s some kind of goddamn picnic scrolling through Netflix only to find out that the movie you want isn’t on streaming, don't you? And then having to search for the torrent file and download the movie that way—you probably think you can do all that, easy as pie. Ignoring your editor’s ninth urgent voicemail of the day is just a big ol’ cinch, ain't it, you little turd?
Man, oh man. I’d just love to see you try and update to the latest version of QuickTime, so you can watch that movie and then doze off halfway through it, your pizza-stained shirt now also covered in Wheat Thins crumbs, the cellphone just ringing and ringing and ringing.
Love to see it, buddy boy.
Did you even think for a moment about what it takes to briefly consider going out for a walk, but then masturbating two times instead? And then dozing off for the second time before 2 p.m.? No, you sure didn’t. Because you're all talk.
Well, why don't you put your money where your mouth is? Get your ass over here and show me how well you make pizza bagels in the toaster oven and then spill most of the tray all over your already pizza-stained shirt, and then I’ll shut my big mouth. But that ain’t gonna happen—and the look on your face is going to be so, so sweet.
What's that? Nothing to say all of a sudden? Didn't think so. Now hand me my Xbox controller and my neck pillow and get the hell out of my sight. I've got 12 hours of Bioshock: Infinite to play and a column to crap out in 20 minutes, three days after deadline.
It’s time for the adults to get to work, junior.
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This Is Your Last Week Before Realizing You Are Nothing but a Pawn in Someone Else’s Mysterious Game11/11/2013