Hello.
This is not the Spoonbender speaking.
The Hated Author of the Spoonbender (or Anderson Cooper, or Lou Dobbs, or Analogcabin, or any of a thousand other monikers he goes by) is currently somewhere over the Great Sea en route to sunny climes, where he will relax on tropical beaches, surrounded by smiling natives and witch doctors, whose dulcet voices will lull him gently to sleep with songs of kidnapped American floozies and outsourced tech jobs. He plans to remain in those happy climes until July 15th, or until he is nominated to the U.S. Supreme Court, whichever comes first.
In the interim, I, Ian, or "Ian," as this site's proprietor likes to call me, will be the Master of Ceremonies in the Hated Author's stead. You may know me from my own moderately entertaining website, Wrapped Up Like a Douche, which has somehow managed to avoid being nominated for every major website ass-kissing award for a third straight year, despite bearing the prestigious title of "Home of the Sausage McMuffin with Bacon."
Now, having been a frequent visitor to this site in the past, I feel I have a good idea what you, the loyal readers, have come to expect; and I would imagine that right now you're feeling a mixture of horror, dismay, disgust, and the urge to commence litigation. I don't blame you. I'm not the Spoonbender, and it would be impossible for me to fill his large, fungicide-reeking shoes.
But if I am to even attempt such shoe-fillery, I know I will have to "turn it up a notch"--I must sharpen the razor of my wit until it cuts the very stone it is hewn upon. I must disregard the feelings of those less fortunate or educated or good-looking. I must suppress my compassion for the culturally-challenged. I must bury my empathy beneath layer upon layer of not-give-a-crapness. I must do this, as the Spoonbender has done before me, for the greater good of humanity, or at least that part of humanity which doesn't make me want to vomit.
And I am painfully aware that the slightest rhetorical rope to which I avail you people will quickly become my noose, and I will have become just another chunk of bloated carrion on the roadside of that inglorious boulevard known as guest-bloggery.
But rather than wait passively for this unhappy public scourging at your capable hands, I've decided to meet my fate head-on. Therefore, to save you the trouble, I've drafted the following template responses, which you may feel free to copy and paste into the comments, or customize them for maximum vitriol as you see fit, or simply type "Comment [A, B, C, etc.], Jerkoff!" into the appropriate field. If you pace yourself, you should be able to get through all of them by the 15th. Let's begin:
In closing: while my regular readers know that I may be somewhat less eager to offend than the legendary bastard to whom this site owes its name, I feel I must add that in spite of my general good humor, if you mess with me, I'll skull-fuck your grannny's corpse. Let's have a fun couple of weeks, kids!
This is not the Spoonbender speaking.
The Hated Author of the Spoonbender (or Anderson Cooper, or Lou Dobbs, or Analogcabin, or any of a thousand other monikers he goes by) is currently somewhere over the Great Sea en route to sunny climes, where he will relax on tropical beaches, surrounded by smiling natives and witch doctors, whose dulcet voices will lull him gently to sleep with songs of kidnapped American floozies and outsourced tech jobs. He plans to remain in those happy climes until July 15th, or until he is nominated to the U.S. Supreme Court, whichever comes first.
In the interim, I, Ian, or "Ian," as this site's proprietor likes to call me, will be the Master of Ceremonies in the Hated Author's stead. You may know me from my own moderately entertaining website, Wrapped Up Like a Douche, which has somehow managed to avoid being nominated for every major website ass-kissing award for a third straight year, despite bearing the prestigious title of "Home of the Sausage McMuffin with Bacon."
Now, having been a frequent visitor to this site in the past, I feel I have a good idea what you, the loyal readers, have come to expect; and I would imagine that right now you're feeling a mixture of horror, dismay, disgust, and the urge to commence litigation. I don't blame you. I'm not the Spoonbender, and it would be impossible for me to fill his large, fungicide-reeking shoes.
But if I am to even attempt such shoe-fillery, I know I will have to "turn it up a notch"--I must sharpen the razor of my wit until it cuts the very stone it is hewn upon. I must disregard the feelings of those less fortunate or educated or good-looking. I must suppress my compassion for the culturally-challenged. I must bury my empathy beneath layer upon layer of not-give-a-crapness. I must do this, as the Spoonbender has done before me, for the greater good of humanity, or at least that part of humanity which doesn't make me want to vomit.
And I am painfully aware that the slightest rhetorical rope to which I avail you people will quickly become my noose, and I will have become just another chunk of bloated carrion on the roadside of that inglorious boulevard known as guest-bloggery.
But rather than wait passively for this unhappy public scourging at your capable hands, I've decided to meet my fate head-on. Therefore, to save you the trouble, I've drafted the following template responses, which you may feel free to copy and paste into the comments, or customize them for maximum vitriol as you see fit, or simply type "Comment [A, B, C, etc.], Jerkoff!" into the appropriate field. If you pace yourself, you should be able to get through all of them by the 15th. Let's begin:
- Each day until the return of the Spoonbender is as a thousand years--a thousand years of watching Walker, Texas Ranger next to a naked Chuck Norris on PCP.
- I can't wait 'til you wrap this up like a douche, douche-bag. Hugs, [Reader].
- Ian-you lick the sweat off a dead Robin Williams' career's balls. Love, Dad.
- Your funny, dude. And no, I don't mean "you're" funny, Mr. Copy-Editing-Asshole, I literally am talking about your funny--as in, "What have you done with your funny, dude, since it certainly isn't here."
- May the seven-headed Nameless Beast of a Thousand Fangs feast on the accursed blood of your eviscerated loins while your tormented soul walks in darkness and unending suffering for a thousand generations, Mr. Poopy-Diapers!
- Each word you type is funnier than the next. Take my blog, please!
- I haven't laughed this hard since I got malaria. Thanks for making me pine for those happy days on the toilet. Yours, [Mr./Mrs./Rev.] Schpilkes.
- Hey buddy: This is so bad that I almost wish that I or any of the hundred other people whom the Spoonbender asked before asking you had accepted, rather than choosing to stand on the sidelines criticizing the fool who eventually said "yes." Good luck, jackass!
- You make me want to go read that fat Jewish chick's blog. Go eat ass.
In closing: while my regular readers know that I may be somewhat less eager to offend than the legendary bastard to whom this site owes its name, I feel I must add that in spite of my general good humor, if you mess with me, I'll skull-fuck your grannny's corpse. Let's have a fun couple of weeks, kids!