Dear Evil Discussor... You're a total fucking asshole, aren't you?

First of all, that's a statement. Followed by a question. Which is against the rules. So, really, who's the asshole? But still, I'll answer it. Cause I'm a nice guy.

Which is my point here really. And if this simple action of answering your question, even though it wasn't just a question and did not follow to a tee the simple rules laid out on the top of this webpage, stoopid, doesn't single-handedly and, in a matter of but a few short words, refute your accusation of my assholishness, and prove you to be incorrect, and me to be a nice fellow, a man with no ill will, and no assholery to be speak of, then this surely will: No. I am not an asshole.

What? Still here? That's not enough? You want more proof? Fine. I've noticed that bloggers like to make "Here are a few things you should know about me" lists so I thought I would too. Here are a few things you should know about me:

1) I am the the kindest, gentlest of bears.

1b) Not in that I am big and hairy, but in that I am soft and cuddly, with big bear claws and horribly fearsome hibernation-like breath.

2) I care about things. Like, children. The environment. And bitches.

3) I'm a nice guy. The kind of guy who is always there for a friend. Who always has an ear, and yes, a shoulder, to lend. Who, when you're feeling down, comes over unannounced, rings your doorbell, and as soon as you open the door, gives you a very super tight, and super long hug, for a long long while, then just about when you think the hug will never ever end, squeezes your butt cheeks and leaves, all without ever speaking a word.

4) Not much of a list, I suppose, but that's all you should really know about me at this point. Sometimes, when I let people get too close, when I let them in too far, I get very, very hurt. Especially when I let them in through the bum.

5) Besides, this whole list gag is getting tired.

6) But that bum joke was pretty good, yes?

This picture of a butterfly has nothing to do with anything. I just thought it would nicely break up this awfully horrible expanse of mind-numbing words, and maybe give you a chance to get a drink of water.

Anyhow, I'm a wonderfully sweet person. I can't help it. That's just the kind of guy I am. And, now that I think about it, maybe the fact that I like pictures of butterflies proves that even more. (Then again, it also might just prove that I am maybe fond of the same sex, if my "bum sex" joke didn't already, plus, all this talk about "assholes", and the fact that I posted a picture of a penis last week, and then just now linked it again, but let's just leave that at that, and anyways, stop being such a fucking homophobe, you fucking homophobe.)

Listen. I'm a nice guy. I just play an asshole in my bloglife. It's fun. But more than that, it's important. It's a service I'm providing here. And you know that. What I'm actually doing here, see, is I am actually lampooning the rampant assholioism that runs wild and unfettered every hour of every day here in Blogland, USA. What I'm doing is satire, and you don't need to know the work of Johnathan Swift, or of Lenny Bruce, or of Howie Mandel to understand that. I'm a parody of your typical blogster. It's irony, lads. I am playing the role of the bloghole in order to shine a bright white hot light on the current state of blogholism today. And if you don't get that, it's probably cause, well, you, um, don't, get, uh... alright, it's probably because I'm no good at satire. And bad at parody. And barely even know what irony is. And also suck at being funny. So, yeah, that's a problem. And maybe something I should work on. But anyhow, in the end, it's art, folks. And, trust me, no asshole would ever claim that his blog was art.

So to answer your question, I'm not an asshole. And there is absolutely no reason to believe that my assholish ways is just me projecting, that it's all just a cover, a mask, a shield for my total all-encompassing, debilitating meekness, and that I just started up this blog so I could anonymously seek revenge for those 12 to 18 years of being the totally fucking invisible pencil-necked fucking nobody, the fucking zit-faced rag doll in the high school hallway, watching from a distance as all those horrible fucking fuckers got laid and had a great time and made plans and got high and did things and went on to be successes and barely fucking even batted an eye my way after 10th grade, not even to humiliate me, and now, thanks to the the internet, I can sit in my own room and say every last fucking thing I ever wanted to fucking say without anybody interfering, with nobody getting in my way telling me what to do or or how to be or when to speak.

I have no idea why you would say that or think that about me. That's ridiculous. I know, you never said it, but I'm sure you're thinking it. And it's not at all true, so stop thinking it. Cause its not true in the slightest. I don't know who might have told you that, but it's a total fucking lie. And it's not true. It's a lie. So, yeah, anyways, I'm not an asshole. And anyways, fuck that, and fuck you, douchenose.

No, I'm just kidding. You're not a douchenose.

See? Niceness. My point exactly.

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why do mosquitoes love you so much?

I don't know. But do they fucking ever. Those skeeters turn my hot bod into one big piece of skeeter loving meat. They're drawn to little old Evil me like the love magnet that I am. They love me so much, it's like they want to have my little fucking skeeter babies. (I know. Same joke also used in previous post. But, would you get off my freaking back? This shit ain't easy, man.) (Fine. It is pretty easy. But you know what I mean.) If there is a mosquito anywhere in my general vicinity, it will buzz itself around, bypassing every other very biteable individual in the area, find its way my way, latch on to me, and suck me all night.

Which, by the way I just put it, doesn't sound so bad. Sounds pretty fucking titillating, actually, I've got to say.

But trust me, it's not. It's not a good sucking. It's sucking in a bad way. A big, bad blood-sucking. And worse, when those nasty fucking blood fucking sucker fuckers fucking bite me, the bites tend to itch like a crazy bitch and swell to mythic proportions. Once, when camping in the wilderness, I had the good fortune to be bit on my left eyelid, which then quickly and mercilessly swelled up to a ridiculous degree, so that I looked not unlike Eric Stoltz in Mask. Needless to say, I was a hit with the ladies.

Right now, I have two bites on my side that just won't quit. I must've been nailed by some flying fuckitoes sometime last night. But in Manhattan? Mosquitoes? Those have got to be the stankiest mosquitoes around. New York-style, homeless tranny, garbage picking, crystal meth addicted, hep-something mosquitoes. And they just threw a non-stop nasty little crystal meth sex party all over me.

But, I guess, when you think about it, the fact that mosquitoes enjoy my sumptuous flesh offerings is, like my Mom (pictured) says, just a testament to the fact that I'm so damn sweet, right?

Come on. Admit it. I'm sweet like a summery peach. I'm hot damn tastily evilicious, and you know it.

Alright,
E.D.

P.S. And, in case you're wondering, yes, that is my actual Evil mom. It's not like I just went on Google Images, typed in "mom" and went with the first picture I could find. What would be the point of that? That would just be plain stupid.

Dear Evil Discussor... Eisenberg's vs. Shake Shack. Whose side are you on?

Seems that the kind, gentle, paper cap-wearing, line-cooking souls at Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop are pouring a hot bucketful of lard on the greasy grilltop that is the NYC Burger Wars. (Alright, fine, that analogy makes very little sense. Plus, I'm not even sure there are NYC burger wars really. I was just trying to make it sound all sensational. But anyways, just go with me here.) Just recently, out in front of the venerable, glorious, old-New York coffee shop, a handwritten sign was leaned up against the window, saying:

"Hey! Why not grab something to go so you can eat in the park and watch people stand on line for an hour waiting to get something to eat."

Funny? Okay. Grammatically correct? Kind of. Incendiary? Hell yes. It's a fucking proclamation of war. Food War. And you best take cover. Now, Eisenberg's is obviously, not so subtly, referring to the Shake Shack, Madison Square Park's outdoor burger and fries stand at which right now, as we speak, and at any time of day or night, teeming masses of people stand in line, waiting impatiently for a tantalizing mouthful of burg. And which most likely siphons some business off of Eisenberg's daily tally. Clearly, Eisenberg's is not so happy about such things. And are doing what any business in the free market would do. Proclaiming bloody fucking war. Word war, yes, but still, it's war I tell you. A war that just might go down as the nastiest war ever fought, using strictly handwritten signage as weapon, between two places that serve food, in and around the corner of 23rd and 5th, in the month of July. Or maybe not. Maybe it's just a single handwritten sign, a single lob of a grenade, that will flare out and smolder, barely doing any damage, forgotten forever, and that'll be that.

But still. Maybe its fucking war! That would be more fun, wouldn't it? Maybe it'll even be remembered in the distant future as "The 23rd Street-5th Avenue Flatiron-Area Madison-Square-Park-District Horrible Burger War Of '06!" Or better yet, even just "The Horrible War." And, trust me, this is not just a war about foodstuffs. No. This is much bigger than that. This is a war of Old-World vs. Newbie. Of Indoor Dining vs. Al Frescoliciousness. Of Cockroach vs. Rat. And, yes, of Melamine vs. Cardboard.

Eisenberg's, and their handwritten sign, or, as I've taken to calling it, their initial provocation of bloody burger war, is very clear in message. Their handy advice is that you should go to Eisenberg's, buy food, take it out, bring it to the Shake Shack, sit facing the people in line, and in front of all of the hungry sad foodless faces, fill your own face with food, while cackling maniacally like a crazy homeless person. And that's fine. Actually, its a pretty novel idea. And might be kind of a fun thing to do one afternoon. If anyone is up for it this Saturday, please do let me know. But where they lose me, is in their subtly sly read-between-the-lines suggestion that they are a better alternative to Shake Shack. This is a problem, see, when you take into account the fact that Eisenberg's is, in fact, not a better alternative to Shake Shack. And barely even an alternative at all. Yes, I suppose they do both serve food. But when one wants to go to the Shake Shack, it is generally because one wants to eat a hamburger, no?

Now, look at these two hamburgers. The first, from Shake Shack. The second, from Eisenberg's. Which burger do you prefer?

Now wait. Take your time. And really think this over. Look at these burgers closely. Examine them. Really take a good look. Notice, if you will, that there's something not quite right here. Something's amiss. Do you know what that is? That's right. You guessed it. One of these burgers is not a burger. It's a fucking tuna salad sandwich. What Eisenberg's is known for. Supposedly the best tuna in town. And granted, I'm sure it is a great tuna salad sandwich (I wouldn't know, because, obviously, tuna salad is for the ladies), but that doesn't change the fact that it is definitely not a burger. It is similar to a burger in that it's something you hold between two pieces of bread and bring up to your mouth, instead of leaving on your plate, and cutting with a knife and fork. But that is what is known as a sandwich. Not a burger. And I know what you're thinking. Yes, Eisenberg's now does serve a burger. It's advertised in its windows as The Eisen Burger. Admittedly, very clever. And probably very tasty too. But again, I wouldn't know. I haven't had it. Know why? Cause the Shake Shack is right up the street.

Which maybe might bring me to my point finally. It's not like the Shake Shack needs any more support. Certainly not my evil support. But sometimes hype is hyped for a hyping hyped reason. The Shake Shack has a most delicious burger. A meat cookie beyond compare. A burger that is so good, you might want to, for some reason, wear white gloves when eating it. (pictured) As if you were a white-glove doorman, opening the doorway to your belly, so that the precious burger may enter. It's that good. Twenty-million line-standing assholes cannot be wrong. Shake Shack, however, does not have a delicious fried egg sandwich in the morning. Or hot coffee. Or hot pastrami. Or open face tuna melt. Or chicken noodle soup. Or can of sardines. Or chopped chicken liver. Or salami and eggs. Or egg cream. Or all sorts of other delicious and halfways-archaic diner offerings. For those things, I would most certainly head to the king of the classic NY diners. And rest assured, sweet House of Eisenstein, if the Shake Shack started making tuna melts, I would pass them right by, and come see you, I swear it. If I liked tuna, that is. But, when I want a burger? I'm gonna shake my way all the way down to the Shack, hombre. And that is likely the gayest thing I've ever said. Especially, the "hombre" part.

Listen, even if I were to want a burger at Eisenberg's, the place closes at 5PM on weekdays and 4PM on weekends. Whatthefuck how'sthat? Not really prime burger-wolfing hours, no.

I do love love you though Eisenberg's. And you know it hurts me to say these cruel things. I love you with all of my luncheonette-loving heart. I want to have your little luncheonette babies. But when it comes to wanting a burger, please don't get between me and my meat. That sounded weird, but I think you catch my drift. I'm sorry, but history be damned. Venerable institutions be screwed. I'll take the deliciously juicey homemade-edy goodness of a Shake Shack burger, the magical allure of sucking it back out under a clear night's stars, in the very middle of Manahatta, staring into my lovely lover's eyes, wiping grease off of her chin with the hairy back of my hand, any day, over the possibility of maybe having a somewhat decent burger in the confines of your sweetly sweaty coffee shop, between the hours of 7 and 4 daily of course. I'm not afraid to say it. Call me a slave to the over-hyped, overly-written up, overly-lined up, overly-crowded, critic's darling, trend crazy, fad happy, horrible culinary ways of New York City, if that's what you must call me. But also, call me after you get in the Shake Shack line and you're close to the front, would you? That way I won't have to wait too long.

Oh yeah. And I wish you wouldn't use the term on line when what you really mean to be saying is in line, Eisenbergians. I've told you before how I feel about that.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Who would you like to hump this hump day?

Maybe it's your hard-nosed journalistic styles. Maybe it's your impeccable credentials. Maybe it's your collective assortments of prizes and awards and honors. Maybe it's because you're like a gang, and gangs are tough and mean and sexy. Maybe it's the way the clock ticks, counting down the short time we have together. Oh yes. Today, I have a sweet Hump Day surprise. Today, I hump not one, not two, but many humpees. It's a special Hump Day Humpathon! Or Hussathon! I can't decide.

That's right. Entire 60 Minutes group of correspondents, today you are my Hump Day Hussies.





Earring? Are you kidding me? That kind of shit turns my crank!


I'll give you something to complain about, Andy!
Or, should I say... Randy?


Stone Something or other? Brock Whatevershisface?
I don't even know who this guy is! And I'll still hump him!


The more Morley, the better. You know what I'm talking about.


Have I got a sweet little retirement package of my own for you, Mike Wallace!
No, honestly. I'm not kidding. It's a basket. With some chocolate and some fruit. What? Did you think that was some sort of innuendo? Get your mind out of the gutter.


Between you and me, I'd like to hump you the most, Leslie Stahl. Cause you're a girl. But don't tell the others! It's our little secret! (Not that you're a girl. I think they know that, don't you? That I'd like to hump you the most. That's our secret, for goodness sakes.)


Steve Croft! So young! So virile! So Stevelicious!


All except for this guy. Who the fuck is he and when did he show up? He weirds me out. Oh wait. Yeah. I'm pretty sure he used to play Sulu on Star Trek.



previously
Hump Day Hussy -- I've got something for journalists. What can I say?
Hump Day Hussy -- And comic strip characters.
Hump Day Hussy -- And Phoebe Cates also.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this your 100th post?

Um, no. Not really. Well, wait. I guess it kind of is. If you include a whole bunch of shitty drafts that never quite made the grade. If you can believe that's there's actually a "grade" to "make." Which there is. It's a C minus, if you're wondering. So shit dick fuck prick yeah! It's my 100th, SweetKnocks! Partay! Everyone over to my blog.

And now, Evil Discussor Enterprises proudly presents... The very first ever... Montage/ Collage/ Photo-Journal/ Art Piece/ Installation/ Photo-Album/ Exhibit/ Extravaganza/ Pictogram/ Photo-tastic Whateverthefuck... Entitled, "How Evil D Will Be Spending This Very, Very, Very Special Day."

Dear Evil Discussor... How many readers do you think you have?

You might call them readers, anon. But I call them friends. Lovers. Fellow dreamers. And also, Douchefaces. Sometimes, I like to call them Superstars. My little superstars. I also fancy calling them Sailors sometimes if you must know. And I, Captain Blogheart, most swash-bucklingest seafarer on all of the seas. So dapper in my captain's hat and navy blue blazer and handlebar moustache. And I pretend we're all on a ship together heading straight t'wards a terrifying summer's squall that's sure to wrench this little wooden blogging boat apart and throw us all overboard into a roiling churning freezing sea of sharks and waves and certain death and doom! And we hold eachother. Close. Really, really close. So close that I can feel your ribs. And you, my, um, rib, as well. Yes. That's my rib. My extra rib. My very lower rib. Yes, I know ribs aren't supposed to be there. But it was a birth defect. And so, I have an additional rib that grows sometimes just beneath my pantwaist. And, its been a struggle, it hasn't been easy, and its taken a lot of getting used to, and please, you're starting to make me uncomfortable with all of these questions, just trust me, its a rib.











Anyways, enough about that. It's just something I like to do sometimes. But, yeah, I don't know. 5 readers? 15? 50? 505? Its hard to say. You know what? It's even quite possible that its a number that doesn't involve a five. Like, say 17. Or 48. But who can really tell? Alls I know is I love each and every one of them from the very deepest darkest bottomest of my Evil heart. And I only hope I can touch them in the profound way that they have touched me. And also maybe in a different way. Say, between the knees. In the case of the ladies, that is. But that's a different story for a different time, for a different post. Perhaps on an entirely different blog. Perhaps maybe even not written by me. Possibly a blog entitled Between the Knees. Possibly not. One never knows. I don't know everything after all, dammit. Only most things.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Was your last post the longest post ever written in the history of the world, and will you please sing us a song about it?

(sung with flair and vivacity, great joy and effervescence, over a bouncy staccato beat)
(oh, yeah. and with a look on your face like this guy)






Yes it was long
Long as my dong
Long as my longest-ass super long shlong!

It was long as my leg
My middle third leg
The leg in between my other two legs!

Oh it was long as my rake
My pant pocket snake
That makes you quake when I put it in your cake!

I don't know what that means
Or maybe I do
It was long as the longest ever piece of poo!

And that's how long my love
(pause and take a breath)
grows
(pause and take another breath)
for yoooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!
(hold the note)
(hold it)
(a bit more)
(and here we go)

Yes, you! That's who! And I mean you!

Ha cha cha!


E.D.

more songs in which i reference either testicles or a penis that may or may not be mine
Dear Evil Discussor... Are you the evilest man in all of Evilstan?
Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just spend another morning feverishly rewriting the lyrics to Mambo #5?
Dear Evil Discussor... Who's got the most bestest blog on the webby web web?

Dear Evil Discussor... Are you becoming less funny?

I've truly feared for this day. But, I knew it would come. Anon, you have outed me, and it's time I make amends. Make peace with my past. I have something to tell all of you. Something that will, most likely, shake up the blogworld at its very foundations. Something that's been eating me up inside and I just can't go on without revealing. There's just no way to hide it anymore. Its obvious what's going on here, and it's time I admit it.

I'm not funny. Honestly. I know it's hard to believe, but I mean it. I'll say it again. I'm not funny. Never have been. Never ever. It's not that I've become less funny. It's that I was never funny in the first place. I've just pretended to be funny. My most Evilest trick to date.

See? That wasn't funny. At all. Not even a bit. Not even the bolding of the words "I'm not funny" was funny. Nor the italicising. Nor the combination of both. Quite the opposite actually. And there was ample room there for some sort of joke no doubt. But, the truth is, I'm not who you think I am. The closest I've ever come to being funny was this one time, in high school, when I got up to make a presentation and nothing would come out of my mouth. I was nervous and couldn't do it. I had to sit back down. And some people laughed. They thought it was funny. And maybe it was. I wouldn't know. Cause I'm not funny. Sometimes I tell jokes, and when they're over, sometimes people laugh, and sometimes they just cough. But I'm never even sure whether the people who are laughing are laughing because the joke was funny, or because they don't want to make me feel bad. I just can't tell.

There are some things though that I'm pretty sure are funny. Everybody Loves Raymond. Pies in faces. I know its mean, but when someone steps in dog poop, that's pretty funny. Jay Leno. And the two black guys on Saturday Night Live. So, obviously I can recognize good humor sometimes. I just can't make it.

Well, then, you ask, how has this site been so effortlessly and astoundingly hilarious for so long? How have you mangaed to captivate us with your high-minded hilarity all these months? I'll tell you. I'm not proud to admit it. But its because of this guy.


You may not recognize him. But you've certainly read his words, I can assure you of that. His name is Ronnie Podowski. And he's funny. Really, really funny. He might look pretty serious in this picture, but trust me, he's funny. Or so people said. I actually never really totally "got" his brand of comedy. But that didn't matter. Anyways, just at the point when my blog was stalling, failing to gain any traction, his gig as a writer on Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn went belly up. And, you guessed it, I hired him to ghost-write for me. To be Evil Discussor. To give it a try. Just to see how it would go. And boy, did it work. All of a sudden, it was like magic. He was hilarious. The blog was hilarious. And my calibre of blogsmanship went through the roof. His first post for me was Dear Evil Discussor... When you're around little kids, do you sometimes worry you'll get punched in the balls? Read it for yourself. It's absolute utter hilarity. Pure Ronnie. The change was instantaneous and enormous. I can't come up with any funny way to describe it, but he probably would have written something like, "It was like someone took a kitchen knife, dipped it in a tub of funny, and smeared it all over my blog." Something like that. But it would have been funnier than that. Much funnier. Cause that's just the way he was. Funny. Unlike me. His posts were always so off-the-wall and outrageous. His jokes, so perfectly worded. His sense of humor so "inside" and "hip." His commentary and analysis always side-splittingly spot-on and uproarious. His comedic-style so "layered." For every comment made, he would immediately have the most hysterically snarky sarcastic retort to shoot back. Always timed impeccably. Always unbelievably wacky.

It was working out so well. Things couldn't have been better. The Curbed and Gawker links. The praise-filled post on ThisIsWhatWeDoNow.com. Plus, the crazy amount of hardcore sexing I was receiving. Sometimes with 3 to 6 ladies at once. It was a wonderful time. A whirlwind of success, fame, and hilarity. Everywhere I went, people applauded. It was the perfect arrangement. He made me seem funny, and I, in return, paid him just enough to keep his crystal meth habit alive. And not a penny more. I know, that was wrong of me, and I deserve what I get, but I was desperate, and cheap, and it was a way of ensuring he would work his hardest, and do his damnedest to be funny. Which he did. Up until last week, when after months of unparalleled success, he just upped and quit, upset about the company's poor benefit plan.

Alright, fine. In the interest of total disclosure, I should be completely honest. It will be cathartic for me, actually. And make me feel much better about all this. He ODed. I mean, come on. I'm plying him with crystal meth just to keep the comedy pumping, what did you think was going to happen? Of course his overwhelming and crippling addiction soon got the better of him as it so often does. It started eating him up slowly. At first, he started showing up to work late. He was still funny, but late. Which was annoying. Then, all hell broke loose. The demons of drug addiction took a hold of his funny bone and, I don't know, ate it like a delicious chicken drumstick? (Is that funny? Probably not. My point exactly.) With each crystal meth tablet he ingested, another gag would crumble and fail, falling into the deep, dark, dank canyon of comedic mediocrity. I noticed it at first on Dear Evil Discussor... Who let the dogs out? And by Dear Evil Discussor... What the fuck, Chuck? I could tell he was getting lazy. Tired. His ideas growing more and more stale. One quick read of Dear Evil Discussor... Why did you tuck in your shirt today? and it was abundantly clear his comedic prowess was fading. His jokes went from hysterical to really funny. Then, to just being funny. Then, mildly funny. Sometimes even kind of funny. Then, eventually, hardly funny. And finally, to not so funny. He began relying more and more on scatological humor. Anything about shitting, or fucking. Always with the dicks, and the cocks, and the VGs. The humping. Dirty stuff. Desperate to get a laugh, or just be offensive. If he couldn't be deemed funny, maybe he could at least be deemed inappropriate. He had an entire post written and ready to go, titled Dear Evil Discussor... What's the craziest thing you've put in your bum? and I had to pull it. It was heartbreaking. But it was too much. It wasn't working.

Eventually it got to the point where I would have to write most of the post for him and, in between binges, he would just add on the last sentence of each paragraph, maybe sprinkle in some tepid hilarity, some one-liners that were half-heartedly amusing at best, that maybe you'd laugh at if you were in a laughing mood, but certainly not if you were in a non-laughing mood. His humor was waning. It was failing him. The jokes were more forced. More contrived. He was losing his funny. And it was showing. By the time he wrote Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just spend the entire long weekend writing knock knock jokes about Trader Joe's?, it was clear that he had hit absolute rock bottom. It was over.

Then, one night I found him curled up under his desk, nearly lifeless, clutching one of those little piggy keychains where you squeeze it and it looks like poo is coming out. Its a pretty funny keychain, but still. He looked past me, muttered the word "blerd", and his eyes rolled back in his unfunny head. I panicked, unsure of what to do, not wanting anyone to know my dirty secret, scared of what lay ahead. After a couple of hours and some chinese delivery, I threw him in the backseat, dropped him off at the St. Vincent's emergency ward, and tore off. Needless to say, he didn't make it.

Was that funny? No. It was sad. See. I told you.

Anyways, now I'm left all alone here at Evil Discussor Inc. Just me, my fledgling site, and my horrible unfunniness. So please excuse the non-funny nature of my posts as I figure out what to do next. Maybe I should just change this to a blog about gossip. Or politics. Or unfunniness. I don't know. I suppose I'll begin by sifting through some resumes and figuring out if there's anyone available for hire. Maybe find a replacement and give this funny thing one more go around. If by chance you're funny, please send your funniest bit to me and maybe we can work something out. Or if you know someone who might be funny, or is even funny just once in a while, here and there, please let them know too. Maybe I can hire their funny-ass. Hey. That "ass" part was actually kind of funny, wasn't it? Adding "hyphen ass" after a word. I'll have to remember that.

Anyways, I apologize for this ridiculously long and ridiculously not funny post. And also, for lying to you, and carrying on as if I were funny. I'd love to make a joke here to finish off, but, obviously, I wouldn't even begin to know how.

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is there really ever any reason to ever go to St. Louis ever?

No.

Much like many/most/almost all/all American cities that aren't New York, there's really very little reason for St. Louis to even exist. And I know, because, I spent last night there. Which now makes me the resident expert on St. Louis, yes?

I have seen Missouri. And its inhabitants. And its finest city. And I am proof positive (does that make sense? maybe? hey, back the fuck off. what are you, my fucking editor?) that it's a horrible place that no one should ever bother visiting. Unless of course you're writing a book called Horrible Places. In that case, it makes complete sense that you would visit there. Go ahead. See if I care. Actually don't. Don't bother. I'll give you the lowdown right now. And save you the hassle. You can just pretend you went. No one'll ever know. Cause no one ever goes there. Not even people who live in St. Louis go to St. Louis. That's how bad St. Louis is.

It's kind of like Phoenix. But with a river. And an arch. And, oh yeah, also, a sports bar. And that's it, as far as I can tell. I can say pretty conclusively -- I did spend three hours there, after all -- that there is nothing whatsoever to do, see, visit, eat, drink, fuck, shit, piss or sleep there. Its no place for an Evil Discussor to be. No. Such an awesome, popular, prolific, and powerful blogger such as I needs a city like St. Louis not.

Here's a poem/spoken word thing I wrote, entitled
"Fuck St. Louis (Fuck It Hard)":

Fuck St. Louis!
Fuck it hard!
We don't need it!
Let's burn down St. Louis!
Let's burn down its houses and steal all its gold bouillon!
Is there bouillon there?
I'm not sure.
If so, great. We'll take it!
If not, well, fuck you!
And we'll take that Arch too.
We'll bring it back to New York and put it in a park somewhere.
As a symbol of our conquest of your civic-ass, St. Louis!
We'll put it in Washington Square Park!
Yes!
How brilliant!
Am I!
Right across from the other arch!
We can have an arch off!
And, at the same time, score some weed!
Or oregano!
Who cares?
We'll have a good time.
We'll watch some acrobatic youngsters do their thing!
Or an effeminate guy will strum us a horrible John Mayer tune on his acoustic guitar!
Either way, it'll be great!
Unlike St. Louis!
Fuck that city!
Hard!
Fuck!

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why does it always smell so bad outside Chipotle?

Why does it? At first I thought it was simply because the Chipotle Regional Planning Director for New York had obviously enforced a radical policy whereby all Chipotle restaurants must be located only on sites where a dead person had just recently been buried underneath the sidewalk directly adjacent to the front door. Or maybe it was just a total coincidence. And I clearly just happened to be always passing a Chipotle while at the same time always walking right behind a crazily pant-crapping madman, who had just eaten an entire goat, or drank a bucket of goatsmilk, or had had some sort of meal involving alot of something goat-related the night before, and is now crapping his pants like crazy.

Then I realized, they're shipping this stink our way on purpose, you dumbass dumbface. In a Subway-stlyle guerrilla attack on our senses. They think its going to whet our little appetites. And tantalize our tiny tiny taste buds til we can't control ourselves any longer. And go shrieking in like an insane group of burrito-craving cravers. How ingenious and dastardly and diabolical. But, I mean, I understand pumping a sweetly delicious aroma through the ducts, out onto the sidewalk, so as to entice passerbys to come inside, but why that scent? Why defile the city with that smell of hot death? Out of all the smells in the world, why make it a scent that is not unlike a fart that, as soon as it left your bum, you somehow trapped under a glass, miraculously not allowing even a tiny ounce of it to seep out to safety and freedom, then carefully transferred to a tightly sealed cannister, without losing any of its delicate aroma, and left to sit and brew and ferment and multiply and grow larger and larger, bolder and bolder, without ever offering it a moment's taste of fresh air, for fourteen long festering years, until, at the very peak of its gestation, you mixed it in a cocktail shaker with a few grilled onions and the faint wispy essence of corn salsa, and then, of course, heated to 250 degrees fahrenheit and pumped through a duct directly into our faces?

If you're going to pump a stench my way, make it smell like sweet ripe tomatoes, dammit. Or tangy guacamole even. Or cheese. Or cherries. Or beans, or old ladies, or sweaty ball sweat, or anything for godsakes. Anything at all really. Just not that rank odor that currently pours out of the piping, down onto our poor, innocent, unassuming heads, and straight into our recoiling shnozzolas. It has the exact opposite intended effect on me. It doesn't make me want to eat a burrito. It makes me want to throw one up.

But I guess I'd have to go in and eat one in order to throw one up so... it's a bit of a complex conundrum. Or wait. Maybe that's their plan. Pump a sick smell into the air, causing nausea in me, making me want to barf burrito, which would logically necessitate that I first eat a burrito, which causes me great confusion and ethical dilemma, cause I don't want to eat a burrito, especially cause I'd have to brave my way through the hot stench once more, but inevitably I'm forced to go into Chipotle, if only to drown my confused and cluttered and divided and aching head in a pile of shredded meat salad. Which isn't so bad after all, I guess.

Touche, Chipotle, touche. You've won this time.

Or have you?

What?


E.D.