...so I'm trying to write. Let's face it, this blog sucks. There are no more than 3 posts on it (I'm too lazy to fact-check that), and they suck. I obviously have very little talent when it comes to molding the English language in an attempt to produce some form of humor. But still, I soil my precious internet with these horrifically pathetic postings about iPhones and capital punishment. Postings that vaguely resemble a form of literary sodomy that is only legal in Thailand and certain small towns in Eastern Europe.
"So..." you ask... "Why the fuck are you posting this obvious attempt to curb your writer's block? And why are you wearing that codpiece?" Well, first of all, get the hell out of my apartment, weirdo. And secondly, I'm posting this because I've got nothing else. I'm out-and-out fucked when it comes to material that inspires me to even think something funny. It's a darn good thing I'm not striving to be a comedy writer... fuck.
But what it really comes down to is that I've been catching up on the work of one of my very favorite authors today. Perhaps you've heard of him, his name is God... Actually his name is Robert Brockway, God is just what I call him while his testicles are resting gently on my chin. Apparently during the past several months Robert has been doing quite well for himself. His blog seems to be blowing up, even though I can't read it because at work it is blocked under the category "Sex." I guess WebSense has a limit for the total number of dick jokes allowed on a site before they ban it. He's also been given his own column on cracked.com, another site that has been blocked in my office, only under the seemingly more accurate category of "Tasteless." A description that I firmly oppose, as the taste of shit is still no less, a taste.
Then today, while sitting on the toilet perusing my subscribed rss feeds, I came to find out that this man, a man whose words I have come to both idolize and significantly plagiarize, has been given a book deal. You dirty mother fucker. You actually sucked off a publisher didn't you. How bad was it, did you have to swallow? Did it taste of asparagus?
Soon I was able to put my jealousy aside (it was around the same time I realized my pants were still around my ankles even though I was back at my desk) and be happy for the guy. After all I'm a huge fan, and for some reason everytime I read some of his work, it inspires me to write... Unfortunately, it still doesn't make me very funny, and I'm willing to bet that anyone visiting this site (most likely from a google search gone awry) is now begging you Robert, to stop writing, if only to keep me from continuing to poison our Sweet Lady Internet with my corrosive and vomit-inducing drivel. But to them I say... I WILL NEVER BE SILENCED, except of course, when I run out of shit to say... which is right about... now.
So hats off to you Mr. Brockaway, you are truly a gentleman in the most loose and un-meaningful sense of the word, and I applaud you for it. I also apologize that my ode to you somehow got mixed up in my attempt to rid myself of writer's block. And I assure you, that if I had any talent whatsoever, I would concoct a post worthy to have your name in it (actually, I probably wouldn't know who you were).
RATSHIT!
Love,
G
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