Craig's A Pimp

Now that I’m single, I’ve spent a lot of time trolling the internet looking for girls. Yes, most of it is porn, simply because it’s sexual release without the cost of dinner and/or pretending to be interested in something a woman says, but I’ve also checked out a number of the dating sites. I can’t believe that it took me this long to discover the crazy world of internet pimping.

There are several different tiers of dating sites, or pimping if you will. First there are the high class call girl pimps of eHarmony and Match, then the second and third level rub and tug madams of Pure and Mate1, and finally, on the lowest possible level, just below mail-order brides and AIDS-ridden African whores, is craigslist.

Ah craigslist. How the hell did hookers in Rockland County make any money before craigslist? I mean, besides through my donations. I’m only one man, after all. Actually, I’m starting a new charity: the Adopt Some Sex-Workers Foundation. Adopt Some Sex-Workers Foundation (or A.S.S. Fun for short), allows you to get personally involved in the life of someone who needs your help more than anyone. For a small donation, you can make a difference in a whore’s life today and get her the clear-pumps, pleather skirts, and gonorrhea medication she so desperately needs. Our premium sponsors will even receive a personal visit from the girl they’re helping. I predict that it’s only a matter of days before my charity becomes the most donated to non-profit organization in the world. I mean, come on. How the fuck are Jerry’s Kids going to compete with that?

As founder of this charity, I’ll probably need to buy a pink Cadillac, a gold tooth and a cane. Sure it’s “hard” work, but when I looking at the asses of all the girls I’ve “touched” makes it allllllll worth while. Plus, it’s as close to a recession proof as occupations get.

My favorite section of the Craigslist Personal ads is the “Casual Encounters” listings. Holy Christ. It’s 100% ads for call girls, most of whom think they’re cleverly posing as real women. It’s outstanding. The amount of hilarity is almost too much to stand.

I like the ones that read something like this:

"Hot 28 year-old not getting what I need from my husband. Looking for some no strings attached fun tonight. I’m classy, quiet and shy. Please email pictures and credit card numbers."

And then there’s a picture of her vag. Classy.

I’m not sure why any hooker thinks it’s a good idea to try to advertise with photos of the cootch. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d hardly classify any fish taco as being “picturesque.” But after 15 years of paid-for abuse, it’s almost always a downright tragic view. It becomes, as I like to call it, “Chipped Ham.”



And with that awesome visual, I’m out to troll craigslist for a girl desperately seeking a substitution for daddy’s love. Or maybe just some mayo for her chipped ham.

Living Down To Expectations

To all the people angry with me for what’s written here, I urge you to let it go. That’s the wonderful thing about having this blog. I take all the darkest, least constructive feelings I have during the day, blow them up 20 times the size and then banish them from my mind to the internet. This way, they don't fester. The joke is that no one else can possibly be slandered on this blog worse than I slander myself through its authorship.

That’s the whole point of everything. Why would you possibly take anything negative I have to say about someone seriously when this whole blog lowers me below basic humanity?

I’d urge anyone angry with me over what’s written here to consider the inescapable point that I’ve already been punished for my many flaws and shortcomings: I’ve been kicked to the curb. Between the level I drag myself down to with each post and my ex’s utter rejection of every good part of my being, there’s simply not any compelling reason to waste your anger on me. I'm way below deserving your hatred. There's no possible way for you to make me feel worse. There's no endgame for you.

You want to know what the purpose of this blog is? To live down to her expectations. You shouldn’t get angry with me. I’m just proving her right.

Big News And Shit I Love About Being Single

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False Truisms

The first thing to remember about any break-up is that 99% of the time, people are going to tell you the same old shitty sayings.

“There are other fish in the sea.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“She wasn’t good enough for you.”

None of them are particularly helpful, enlightening or even accurate. Shall we take these one at a time?

1. If I was interested in fucking other fish, this would be more helpful. But it took me 27-odd years of dating to realize that 99% of the fish out there are either fat, crazy or just trying to sell you into white slavery. The other 1% is simply hiding in wait to fuck you over when you’re at your most vulnerable. Seriously, dating goes like this: you meet 100 girls, only 15 of them are at all attractive. 10 of those girls have no interest in speaking to you what-so-ever. Only 3 of them will agree to go on a date with you, and 2 of them turn out to be completely insane anyway. The last one turns out to have Chlamydia. That’s what dating is. The endless process of weeding through the trash heaps to find the one person with enough going for them that you’d consider contracting an STD.
   


2. I really do think everything happens for a reason: God loves to fuck with us. You ever notice how just when things get really, really bad and you think your life can’t possibly get any worse, a sudden ray of light appears. And there’s an easy solution to all your problems that’s almost within reach. So you stretch out your weary, tired fingers for hope and BAM. God kicks your fucking teeth in. A break-up doesn’t have to have any cosmic significance. Sometimes life sucks walrus balls and that’s just the way it is.
   


3. What does it say about me that a person who isn’t even good enough for me can’t stand to have me around? How does that make me feel better? Even if she were a fat, alcoholic with a hair-lip, she’s leaving because thinks she can do better. This sort of thinking is implying that I should set my sights lower to someone who’s really scraping rock-bottom. Like a crack addict with a clubfoot. Or a homeless hermaphrodite with leprosy. Or a toothless hooker with narcolepsy. Which in my case, is probably true…but you don’t have to TELL me that.

But I suppose that it’s the job of your friends (and complete strangers in bars, video shops, and mortuaries…damn, maybe I’m talking about this more than I thought) to try to offer you advice to get through this difficult time. Most of them fail. However, I’m lucky to have a few very special friends in my life who really made this challenging time more bearable. They are the few people who really understand me and know how to comfort a man in most satisfying non-blowjob-inclusive manner I’ve ever encountered. I’m not big on thank yous, but I’d like to take a moment to reach out to two very special friends I couldn’t have done it without:

Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker

I love you guys. In fact, it’s high time I paid them a visit.

Return From The Dead

So I’ve been gone a while. You may have noticed. You’ve moved on to read the scribbling of other degenerates. I understand. You’re in a different place now. What we had was great, but you’re just a different person. It’s not you, it’s me. That sort of thing.

Who the fuck do I think I am just crawling back into your life?

I’m the motherfucking king, that’s who.

Look, whatever other short-comings I have (and there are a SHITLOAD of them, believe me), I can still throw words on a page with the best of them. And after shedding my girlfriend and 20 pounds, I’m back, vicious and ready to spread my vitriol across the web like a herpes outbreak.

Last you heard about my personal life, I was happily dating and gainfully employed at a new company. Well, I’m 0-2 in those respective departments. I know, it’s stunning that neither a woman or a place of business would want me hanging around for years on end. The profanity, my inability to keep my mouth shut, my degradation of women, religion and the country…really, where did I go wrong?

You know what I blame? Pittsburgh. Fuck that shit-kicking, hick-ridden, inbred-infested, gay-steelworker employing backwater. Seriously, what the shit was I thinking?

Back in NYC (well…within hailing distance, anyway) things are pretty bleak…but at least it’s not Pittsburgh. I think that’s about to be become my new favorite phrase.

“Hey Ehren, that fat chick you’re taking home is balding, covered in acne and sweating like thermal tighty-whitey encased balls in a sauna.”

“Yeah, but at least she’s not Pittsburgh.”

Actually, they have a name for fat, sweaty, balding, acne ridden girls. They call them "Pittsburgh 10s". And by “they” I mean “Me”.

It’s weird as hell being single again. I haven’t seriously flirted with a strange girl in like 3 years. At first I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to remember all my old lines and pick-up routines. Then I remembered that I never had any. Unless you count Rohypnol and astroglide.

In my prime, I could pick up the phone and be guaranteed ass from at least one of 5 or 6 girls. Granted, some where a drive and a half away, but the option was there. In my absence from emotion-free sex (or, since it was a live-in relationship, should I simply say “absence from sex”?) they’ve all found better things to do with their vaginas. What the fuck! They should have been home by the phone with a vibrator on the off-chance I decided to call. One of them has a kid now. It’s depressing to me that a girl I once anger-fucked on the hood of my car is now somebody’s mom.

Fortunately, the real beauty of having a blog like this is that even when shit goes horribly wrong, I can think “well, at least this is going to make a funny fucking post.” My supply of ass has been cut off, forcing me to branch out and meet new people. I like to call this “the recipe for disaster.” You should call it “your lucky day.” Hilarity is the only possible out-come. I’ll be back soon, bitches.

Decision 2008: Fanatics, Old People, Women, and Blacks: Who Does America Hate Less?

I do my best to remain as politically uninvolved as possible. Because as far as I’m concerned, politicians have won: I don’t care. I can’t afford to.

See, there are a few things in life that make me even crazier than my alcoholic, incoherent, foaming-at-the-mouth norm: popped collars. Club music. Paris Hilton. But as far as I’m concerned, politics is well on its way to becoming more retarded than any other item on the above list.

I’ll let you in on an observation of mine: the point of this process is to punish you for knowing anything. This is a bipartisan effort on behalf of the people who run things. For example, let’s take any one of the debates:

Moderator: What would you do to turn around the economic collapse?
Candidate 1: Not be a douchebag like my opponent, who looks like a terrorist and is responsible for fucking up in the first place.
Candidate 2: I would continue not being a whore of big oil, unlike my aging, decrepit opponent who wants to deregulate loan-sharking.

Then for the next two weeks, the news networks have partisan speakers who both claim that their candidate won and made the other guy look like the cock-tampon he really is.

It's times like this that Futurama's Phillip Fry makes the most sense: "If I were registered to vote, I'd send these clowns a message by staying home on Election Day and dressing up like a clown."

Why get involved in that process? Seriously. My blood-pressure and I were better off sitting this one out until Election Day, reading a print-out of the candidates policies, and then showing up in the local high school gym to vote. Nice and easy. No need for a complete mental breakdown involving a high-powered rifle and a book depository. Speaking of which, if Obama wins, let’s just say I don’t think he’ll be parading around Dallis in a convertible anytime soon.

Like everyone else wasn’t thinking that, too.

Unfortunately, my plan has gone to shit because of Sarah Palin. Sound-bites that fucking dumb simply cannot be ignored, no matter how hard I try. So here are some observations that have come to me after my reluctant reawakening to politics as usual:

1. Conservatives keep referring to Sarah Palin as attractive as if saying it will make it true. She’s not. She’s just hot for an insane, hate-mongering, barely-self-cognizant cultist. Exactly like Ann Coulter.
   
2. At first, I thought she and McCain were insane for constantly referring to themselves as “Mavericks.” They’re part of the Republican system that went completely mad with power following 9/11. They are “mavericks” in the same sense that Charles Manson is a “beltway insider.” Then I looked up the definition of the word: “Maverick, noun: an unbranded calf, cow, or steer, esp. an unbranded calf that is separated from its mother.” And I realized, yes. Palin is a fat cow.
   
3. Palin = Dan Quayle + tits.
   
4. Every two days, Republicans come out with a new buzz-word, and fly-over states go completely crazy with adoration:
1. Main Street
2. Gotcha Journalism
3. Liberal Elitism
4. Hockey Mom
5. Joe Six-Pack
   
5. I resent being referred to as “Joe Six-Pack.” I’m really more of a “Johnny Vodka” or “Crandall Schlitz” myself.
   
6. No one else mentioned it, but during the debate, Palin said that she “was opposed to another holocaust.” Way to take a stand. Anything else you want to come out against? Maybe child molestation? How about the prostitution of the mentally handicapped? Seriously, though, I’m relieved. When someone thinks that dinosaurs and carbon dating are part of “God’s Tricks” to test our faith, you can’t take opposition to killing off Jews for granted.
   
7. Joe Biden is kind of scary. Why does he always refer to himself in the third person? Unless…he’s not the REAL Joe Biden.
   
8. No matter who is elected, we’re completely fucked. The difference is that Obama might be able to buy us another 10-15 years. McCain, probably gets us 5. And, God forbid, Palin immediately signals the apocalypse. On a completely unrelated topic, how difficult is it to become a legal citizen of Canada?
   
9. Some people have been asking whether America is ready for a black President. I think we are. Except Idaho. I know. You were probably expecting a joke about the south here, but according to CNN, the state that supports Obama least is Idaho. What the fuck, Idaho? Apparently, McCain’s message resonates most strongly with inbred potato farmers, explaining why he’s currently behind in the polls.
   
10. McCain looks like a muppet. Nothing north of his overbite moves, other than his eyes, which blink way too frequently. It’s as if he’s consciously over-blinking in an attempt to convince voters that he’s alive.

Now, in truth, I’m not really happy with either party. I think they’re both fuck-ups pandering to special interests. Republicans are hate-mongering oil-whores, and Democrats are spineless spendthrifts. But in the end, I have to go with the party currently owned by slightly less scary lobbyists and corporations, and a few percentage points less likely to completely destroy the country, world and life as we know it.

And after all, isn’t that what politics in America is all about?

Ratboy

My girlfriend, Scientist, kills mice for a living. In theory, she has the kind of job that can only be described as a budding sociopath’s wet dream: Each day, she is responsible for the death of 250 mice.

Before the little furry vermin are sent to their death, they get shot up with illegal drugs, including Heroin, cocaine, and PCP.

It’s weird to think that she got a degree to shoot mice up with H.

Because of the staggering amount of mouse deaths in her lab, my friends and I have come to call her office “Maushwitz.” And yes, we’re aware that we’re probably going to hell for that.

Ironically, one of the reasons Scientist hates her job is not because of the mouse, but a rat. Allow me to explain.

One of her co-workers bears an uncanny resemblance to the offspring of Edward Norton and a rat: the beady eyes, pointy noise, and huge incisors have all contributed to his nickname: Ratboy.

His grotesque, rodent-like appearance is not the only reason for the moniker, however. Ratboy might be one of the most irritating people I’ve ever met. There’s just something about a rat-like idiot with a superiority complex and an inability to keep his mouth shut that just rubs me the wrong way. Call me crazy.

Ratboy was talking to Scientist when he said, “So I’m thinking about leasing a car.”

Scientist: OK. Why don’t you just buy one?
Ratboy: Because I’m not an idiot like you.
Scientist: What?
Ratboy: Well, look: in three years you’ll be done pay for your car and you’ll be stuck with a cheap piece of shit. In three years, I’ll just be able to start over fresh with no commitment.
Scientist: I really like my car. And in three years I’ll OWN my car, which will be worth about 15 grand. I can use that TOWARDS a new car, if I want one. You, however, will have flushed about 20 grand down the toilet and will have to start over.
Ratboy: You’re so shortsighted. Leasing is the best possible long-term investment you can make.

This is exactly the kind of fiscal savvy that can only be seen in companies like Enron. I wonder if there’s someplace he can go to lease a set of teeth that don’t look like they were just gnawing drywall.

As the conversation above clearly illustrates, Ratboy is not what you would consider “smart.” But it’s not because he doesn’t read. As my girlfriend discovered in a separate instance:

Ratboy: Hey Scientist, I have a site you should join.
Scientist: Oh yeah?
Ratboy: Yeah, it’s like the greatest idea ever: booksfree.com
Scientist: OK, what is it?
Ratboy: Well you know Netflix? It’s like that, except for books. I pay $30 a month, and they send me any book I want, with no late fees.
Scientist: So…it’s not really “free.”
Ratboy: But I can borrow any book ever made!
Scientist: You mean like the library, which is actually “free.”
Ratboy: No, this is cool because it’s online. And this is unlimited.
Scientist: …Like the library?
Ratboy: But there are no late fees!
Scientist: Late fees at the library are like a nickel. You could keep your books for 2 years and not owe $30…which you pay every month.
Ratboy: But they have EVERY BOOK. Not just some old research material.
Scientist: Have you ever heard of interlibrary loan? Libraries can borrow books from other libraries. So you can get any book every printed.
Ratboy: You’re so shortsighted, Scientist! I can’t believe you don’t understand why this is the best site ever.

While I was writing this post, I decided to do a quick image search of the web. Apparently, before he committed crimes against common-sense in a Westchester laboratory, he spent his evenings in the Gotham City gutter trying to thwart Batman.

The resemblance is eerie.

Reece's Peanut Butter Crotch

A couple months ago I got a puppy. A few observations:

1. Why is “don’t shit inside” such a difficult concept to grasp? He seems to understand, “fridge = food,” “sitting = treats” and “Spray bottle means stop chewing on Ehren’s face.” He can’t pick this one up? I’d trade the rest of his knowledge for learning that the carpet is not his own private shitter. 
2. The dog may be possessed by Satan. I say this because he sleeps with eyes open and rolled back in his head. Combine this with a fondness for dozing off in the weirdest positions and the demonic barking and growling he does and it would be truly frightening if he were any larger than a ham.
3. The amount of ass that would be available to me if I were single is truly astounding.

Now, I’m aware that I’m a little late on that last subject. I knew that this was a technique that had been used for time out of mind by the men who brought you such famous hits as “crabs” “anal” and the donkey punch, but seriously…after walking around with my puppy for a week, I suddenly realized what he was: no-game-necessary card.

EVERYONE had a reaction to me. Virtually every person on the street suddenly made eye-contact and stopped to chat with me. I’m not sure why it is that people automatically assume that because you retrieved a dog carcass from the nearest dumpster, you never lured children into a van or sport-fucked the mentally ill.

Seriously, Jack Saddle is going to get a ridiculous amount of ass simply by borrowing my dog. AND he doesn’t have to scrub shit stains out of a rug at 11:30 on a Wednesday. I hate you, Jack.

I was watching my new puppy, Capone, eat peanut butter the other day from a hollowed out toy called a Kong. What I noticed was that in between slurps of Jiffy, he’d take time off to wash his genitals. Naturally, this got me to thinking: what if Reece’s got it all wrong?

Those would have been some disturbing commercials:

• “Nothing goes with smooth, rich peanut butter like the tangy, nutty taste of crotch.”
• “Hey, your cock fell in my peanut butter!” “No, your peanut butter fell onto my cock!”

Or, my favorite:

• A peanut butter truck veers out of control and crashes into…a truck full of dildos on the way to an all girl porno shoot.

Good times. And you know, I might have been more open to sampling this novel appetizer if I saw an ad for it. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to consent.

Capone has the unnerving habit of sitting on the couch next to people, watching them carefully until they are otherwise occupied, then launching himself at their face, to lick them vigorously. If you’re unlucky enough to be talking, eating, or have any open orifices, then you’re treated to a generous helping of puppy tongue.

This is regrettable because his favorite past time (when not eating shoes, shitting in weird places, or attacking your face) is going down on himself with an enthusiasm that frankly puts most women to shame. So when I happened to be tongue-raped while eating a peanut butter sandwich, I got to sample the questionable “peanut butter and dog crotch” flavor that had been sweeping my living room to rave reviews. It was under-whelming at best. Let’s just say that as much as I’d love to watch commercial actors biting Peter Pan smeared dog wang on national television, I wouldn’t be waiting for this to appear at a candy stand near you in the foreseeable future.

Me Protest Pretty Someday

“Retards protest use of word ‘retard’” should be the headline for this news item. Apparently, mentally challenged supporters of the mentally challanged are up in arms because the film “Tropic Thunder” uses “the liberal usage of a disparaging term used to describe the mentally disabled.”

A couple things here:

1. For those of you not familiar with the film, it features Robert Downey Jr. in blackface. It warms my heart that a movie that brings back the most racist film device of all time is being attacked for completely unrelated reasons.
   
2. Although you wouldn’t know from their cause, there is little proof that the protestors are actually retarded. I find it insulting that these protestors would attempt to pass themselves off as retards to the unsuspecting public. I demand to see some I.Q. tests before I trust that you have the best intents for the retard-community.
   
3. The film is directed by Ben Stiller. You do realize that this blog represents the largest publicity campaign the movie is likely to generate, don’t you? Your public out-cry represents the answer to the question, “if you demean mentally challenged people in the woods in a Ben Stiller film, will anyone except retards pay $12 to see it?”
   
4. The film co-stars Ben Stiller. Asking him to play mentally retarded is like asking Ian McKellan to play queer.
   
5. From what I gather, the uproar regarding this word is that it implies that being mentally challenged is a bad thing. Umm…do I really even need to address this? Let me be the one to break it to you: even if you changed the condition to “Super-happy-funtime–brain-relax” pregnant mothers won’t be lining up to chug pints of Everclear. Now please, put down the signs, pick up your helmets and drool-cups, and return to the basement.

OK, that was wrong of me. But I guess I have an issue with people protesting and getting up in arms over a word. I side squarely with George Carlin who said, “There are no bad words. There are bad thoughts, bad intentions, but there are no bad words.”

So if you’re pro-retard, I’d have to ask you, “Really? There’s nothing better you can be doing to improve the life of a mentally handicapped person right now?” I’m assuming you took time off from work. It wouldn’t be better to just mail your day’s check to a center that trains functionally retarded people to become valued members of society?

I guess the whole point is that we, as a society of haters, need to be FOR more things. And by the way, I’m aware that this whole post, as a protest of a protest, lumps me squarely in a group with those I just denounced. Which, I guess, makes me retarded.

William Zabka: Office Manager

I meant to write another post on my last day. I really did. But then at 2:00, my boss insisted that I leave and start drinking. Technically, I was still his employee for another three hours, so I had no choice but to obey.

It took me a while to decide how I should quit, mostly because I’m still harboring quite a bit of rage. I’m sure that’s shocking to my readers. It’s not like I’d written every day for two solid years about shit I hate…oh wait…

The guy who was responsible for me leaving has the same name as a comedian who had a very shitty sit-com. I guess something about that name just inspires mediocrity and douchebaggery. So, for the purposes of this blog, (and to avoid the “slander” charges the retarded HR rep threatened me with) I’ll be referring to him as “Sinbad” going forward.

Now, I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t contemplate getting even with Sinbad. Among the possibilities I considered for payback were:

1. Cracking a bunch of windshields on random cars in the area and placing his business card under the wiper.
2. Lacquering porn to every available surface in his office.
3. Distributing T-Shirts to the office that read, “I hate Sinbad.”
4. Hiring a private investigator to take revealing pictures of him and then sending them to the entire company.
5. Slipping acid into his coffee before one his “all hands” presentations.

However, I finally decided that the revenge that made the most sense would be to skewer him right here. After all, I know he reads it. This blog got me into trouble so it’s only fitting that it should be my weapon for returning fire. Now, no matter how hard I slam him here it won’t be equal to the damage he did me. I realize that no matter what I write here, it won’t hurt his employment status like he did to me. But hey, I’m not a gutless, coward suck-up and I don’t believe in fucking with someone’s livelihood. So here goes:

Sinbad is a tall guy, with blond hair and a shit-eating grin vaguely reminiscent of the villain from the Karate Kid (Oh, William Zabka. How were there ever villains in 80’s films before you?). He’s oozed his way up like a fresh genital wart on the cock of a 75 year-old transvestite. And with roughly the same aesthetic effect.

Sinbad’s greatest ability is to commandeer credit for the work and ideas of others, followed closely by his talent for laying the blame for his many shortcomings at the feet of anyone who works under him. In my years experience working with him, I’d say that he’s driven almost completely by his insecurities. If I had to compare him to any historical figure, it would have to be “Insane-living-in-a-bunker-era” Hitler, minus the charisma and with less empathy for the suffering of others.

There are a few of instances I feel really outline what kind of leader and man he is:

• He was managing a large project that called for some complex interactions between a number of departments. Because he is completely ineffectual in describing what he wants done, discerning what works and what doesn’t, and perhaps the worst motivator I’ve ever known, the project soon hit the skids. When people higher up the chain asked why the job hadn’t been completed, the heads of department under Sinbad scheduled a meeting to explain the problems. According to office scuttlebutt, Sinbad found out, canceled the meeting, screamed and pouted to his boss that everyone else was gossiping about him, and threatened the department heads if they actually held the get-together.
  
• He once sent me an email forbidding me from discussing his projects with the legal department.
  
• I come from a background where the only thing that matters is your ability to do the job. The work is the most important thing. So if I come up with an idea and you can logically persuade me that I’m wrong, I’ll agree with you…even if you’re a complete douchbag. Sitting down at a table with Sinbad was the first time in my professional life where I could logically prove that an idea was poorly conceived and receive the response, “Well this is what I want, so we’re doing it anyway.”
  
• I’ve actually heard him say, “If you don’t do what I say, I’ll tell [company president name here] on you.”

But enough about his complete failure as a manager. There are plenty people in the world who are simply not cut out for leading who have none-the-less weaseled their way into positions they are disastrously unqualified for. What really sets Sinbad apart is his complete failure as a human being.

I didn’t have much of a personal relationship with Sinbad. But what always set my teeth on edge was the depth of his hypocracy. As you can guess, Sinbad has what some would call an irregular personal life. Yet he had absolutely no problem blackballing me over my blog, something that has no bearing on my professional life.

Recently, someone close to him died and he decided to use the opportunity to give a speech to the company. He spoke about a number of things, mostly about how his dearly departed friend “loved everyone and trusted us to save the world.” Honestly, I had difficulty following the speech because Sinbad loves the sound of his own voice more than Andy Dick loves cock. But the gist of the speech was definitely about how everyone in the office should love each other more. Lovely from a man who goes out of his way to fuck over the people he works with.

If you’re reading this, Sinbad, I’d like to say that irony of this whole thing is that I suppose you were right for trying to fuck me over. Because if I had to work with you any more closely, I probably would have eventually snapped and tried to kill you with a hammer. But I guess it all worked out in the end. After all, I’m happy and content knowing that I'm no longer near you in any capacity. Which is why we shouldn’t feel badly for your poor, departed friend.