Dear Evil Discussor... Do you read minds?

Yes, Amish. I do. I do read minds. And my mind is telling me to barely give this pretty half-assed question a second of my time. And also, to use the word douchebag, fast. My mind is also telling me to stop blogging and to start really living, because blogging is for blerds. Sometimes my mind tells me to take out my privates and place them on my ladyfriend's forehead as she sleeps. I try to tell my mind "No, mind, no, you freaky fucking bitch!" But my mind usually mentally wrestles me to the ground and mentally puts me in a mental figure-four leg lock until I mentally submit and finally do its weird sex bidding.

Right now, my mind is telling me that I am hungry and might enjoy a pulled pork sandwich with maybe some cheese fries. My mind knows me well. My mind knows how much I like cheese fries.

Yours,
E.D.

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

Maybe its because you remind me its time for my Hump Day Hussy pretty much every single week. Maybe its because of your nasty trashy potty mouth and the way you get so angry at some things sometimes. Maybe its because your name sounds hispanic in some way, and so, you most likely are probably rather bootylicious. Maybe its because you like to flash little children even if their parents are around. Maybe its because your profile says you work in advertising, which means you "take it up the ass" from clients on a daily basis. And I like that.



Concha Libre, today you are my Hump Day Hussy.




previous Hump Day Hussaliciousness
Hump Day Hussy #6, N.Y.P.D. Commissioner Ray Kelly
Hump Day Hussy #5, Woman in the Next Cubicle
Hump Day Hussy #4, A 60 Minutes Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3, Lucy Van Pelt
Hump Day Hussy #2, Soledad O'Brien
Hump Day Hussy #1, Phoebe Cates

Dear Evil Discussor... Do you like sucky fucky?

Yes, I do like sucky fucky. I like sucky fucky a lot, thanks. Almost too much. I like sucky. And I like fucky. Sometimes, I like sucky better than fucky. Other times, fucky trumps sucky. Often, sucky is good when followed by fucky. And likewise, fucky is generally better when preceded by sucky. Not to say that sucky doesn't stand up on its own. It does. Much like fucky works exclusively from sucky. And, interestingly, on only very, very rare occasions, does sucky ever come after fucky. But on those super rare times, I really do love sucky fucky. Or, I should say, fucky sucky.


There,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Does it bother you that "discussor" is not a real word? That's gotta hurt.

That does hurt. Hurts a lot. But it's on my driver's license and so, I'm stuck with it. Sure, sometimes I get upset, wondering what could've been. How life dealt me the most unfairest of hands. For years I blamed my Evil mom. But is she not human? And do humans not make crazy-ass mistakes some/most/all of the time? Naming their kids things like Mobius, and Grapes, and 3000, and Milton? Next to those, Discussor ain't so bad, is it? Sure, she could've looked in a dictionary for the spelling. Or even asked someone. Or just have been halfways smart and not so crazy dumb. But she was too busy pushing me out of her womb to think about it. And yelling. And swearing too. And clutching the bedsheets. She was giving birth to amazing me, so, I can't blame her. I just have to deal.

And so do you. So, everytime you speak of me, which I know you do, all the effing time, to your friends and family and fuckbuddies, please be sure to pronounce my name appropriately. "Discussor," not "Discusser." Yes, "Discussor," with a hard "o." An "o" as hard as my very own evil hardness. "Discussor." A name that would befit some sort of tyrannical tyrant. Or an arch nemesis of sorts. Or maybe just a villanous transformer, a Decepticon, if you will, maybe one that has the super-robotic ability to transform itself into a barely mediocre blogger. And, yes, say it with gusto! And delight! Hiss when you say it. Sneer. And spit. Gnash your teeth like a coked up cokeface. And lick your lips too. Lick your lips as if to say, "Every time I say that name, it maketh me to lick my quivering lips with utmost delight, as if the Evil Discussor himself were gently seated upon my very top lip, perched, reclining, miniature, looking up my nose and smiling into my eyes, always with me, protecting me, evillating me with wit and wisdom, I lick my lips and I taste him, and he tastes salty, as if he hasn't washed for days, because he's been too busy blogging, and can't get up from the keyboard, and is covered in Evil man sweat, and is for some reason, on my lip, and its wierding me out actually, I do wish he'd get off." Which is all very true. Except the part about me being miniature and riding around on your upper lip. But, the part about me not washing for days, that's all truth. I should probably go shower.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What do you think is the most disgusting thing I've ever unkowingly eaten?

Probably a finger.
Most likely some poo poo.

Maybe a rat's tiny little furry head.

And definitely an old shoe.


That would be my guess.

And that accidentally rhymed by the way.

That's how accidentally good I am.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Which is more accurate: Evil Discussor or The Magic 8 Ball?

Yes, I did just reveal to you the very first revealing ever of the revealing of Evil Discussor hisself. You see, he is an evil man, with evil plastic facial features and evil plastic hair. Evil incarnate, I tell you. Nay, I yell at you! Fear him! Fear his evilociousness! It is so evil! His evil, that is! His evil is so terribly evil! Wicked evil! Yes! Cower in its presence! Just try to look away from his evil! Go ahead. Try! See! You can't! His evil burns you like the hot hot sun itself! Yet, still you cannot lower your eyes! You watch as he evillates you before your very frightened evillated eyes!

Anyways, what was the question? Oh yeah. Minijonb wanted to know. E.D. or M.8.B. Which is more accurate? Umm. Well. I guess. Umm. I guess Evil D is. Because Evil D is the most accurate accurator in the whole fucking... shitting... world fuck... uh... Oh fuckit. Come on. Let's call a spade a spade here. How the fuck should I know? I mean, whatthefuck. Shit. Fuck, am I getting tired of having to come up with ridiculous answers to your ridiculous fucking questions, shit. It's not fucking easy, you know. I mean, half the time I'm answering my own fucking questions, and even that's not easy. Shit. I hope you already knew that and I didn't just unwittingly reveal one of my trade secrets. And you're not right now experiencing a string of horribly raw traumatic emotions and mind-numbing revelations like that time you found out that Santa Claus was really your uncle in a fat suit, or that the Easter Bunny was really dead, or that your girlfriend was really a man. Either fucking way, whatever. I'm just not in the mood to come up with some silly answer to this silly business. But. I guess it is the pretext for this whole weblog website fuck thing here. And the only real reason for me to be writing. And you to be reading. So I should at least try. Or at least try to keep up the illusion that I'm trying. Or at least do something I guess. Something at least slightly funny. Or even halfways evil. Like call someone a douchebag or a fucknose or something. Hey, you, you're a fucknose! Was that good? Oh fuckit. I can't even bother. I'm tired. I'm just going to sign off here, if that's cool, douchebag.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is it blog-love at first sight?

Alright, forget about that short post thing for a minute. The Evil D needs your help, and knows not where else to turn. I recently had some email correspondence with a lady who wants to marry me. Which is really nice of her and all. But I'm not sure. Should I?




The following is the email exchange between me and a Jessica so and so, under her subject heading "Forward and entirely inappropriate" :

Jessica:
Dear Evil Discussor,

I think I'm in love with you. Will you marry me?

Jess

P.S. Does it bother you that "discussor" is not a real word? That's gotta hurt.


Evil:
Jessica, I will answer your entirely inappropriate questions in a future post. But let me ask you this, are you above the legal marrying/consensual-sexing age? Because, I've been in trouble like this before, and honestly, I'm not going back to the fucking big house. Ever. The Evil has done his time and sworn off crime.


Jessica:
I am twenty-seven years of age. I don't know if that constitutes the consensual-sexing age (and I have not, in fact, consented to having sex with you) but it's definitely the legal marrying age. I have consented to marrying you, if you'll have me.


Evil:
Check the blog next week, sweet Jessica. And I will answer your query.
Please enjoy the weekend. And please be sure to think of me wherever you may go.


Jessica:
R-A-D. I'll be picking out china patterns and sending out invitations.

------

Just like that. Out of the blue. A marriage proposal. Followed by china patterns and invitations. Just like they said it would be. Who'd a thunk it would happen like this? Now? At the prime of my blogging career? You can tell in the email that, like usual, I was just trying to be funny, even resorting to rhyme at one point, when, in actuality, I was rather nervous. Wouldn't you be? I mean, she just popped the fucking question for fucksakes. This is some serious fucking business. One of the biggest decisions of my ever loving life probably. I'm understandably flustered. I am very much into effing, but when it comes to marriage, I get a little squirrelly. Squirrelly like a squirrel, munching on a faceful of nuts. That didn't come out right.

Am I ready for this? For this commitment? A lifetime union? A one way ticket to monogamy town? A weekly schedule on the fridge detailing on which days I will and will not receive blowjobs? Plus, she recoiled at even the mention of consensual sex at this point. What the fuck does that mean? That's crazy talk. Also, she ribbed me a bit on my "Discussor" name. (Which is something I'll have to deal with in an entirely other post altogether.) But tell me, was it the playfully flirtatious ribbing between two would-be lovers I sensed? Or the animosity of a cornered cat, of a woman scorned one too many times, of a no doubt about it soon-to-be axe murderer?

Though, there definitely are things I like about her. Like, mainly, the fact that she likes me. What's not to like about that? She's obviously got a good head on her shoulders. But speaking of "good head," there's so much about her I don't know. She's obviously smart and funny, bold and confident. Her spelling and grammar, perfect and effortless. Her tone, warm and charming. But is she into bringing her friends home for all night crystal meth threeway fuck sessiones? (Yes, with a Mexican emphasis.) And wait a minute. Hold the phones. Could it possibly be? No way. It couldn't. Or, could it? Is this Jessica, perhaps, Jessica Coen, Esq. of Gawkerhood fame? Might be. She's certainly got the wit and intelligence. Not to mention, the panache. I don't even know what "panache" is, but I do know it's French, and that she has it. In spades. So, could be. Who can say?

I really don't know what to do. But I do know, that when it comes to immense, life-altering, history-changing decisions, it's always good to leave it in the hands of anonymous blog commenters and other sadsacks, don't you think? So, should I say "yes"? "I'll think about it"? Or "no fucking way"? I know, the tables are turned. The high and mighty Evil has stepped off of his high and mighty pedestal for a moment and stooped down to your extremely lowly pleebish level. But he needs your advice now. Will you help him? Please cast your vote. My future, and the future of my fucking, depend on it.

Help,
E.D.

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

Holy fuck a shit. And a tit. Yesterday, I had some high-ass fucking-ass comments page demand for Hump Day Hussaliciousness. Who the eff knew my effing Hump Day Hussy was so effing loved by so effing many? Alright, fine, it was just four people, but still. Unless its all the same hump day loving hussing husser masquerading as two anons, a tilly, and a concha. But, either way, I'm humbled. And, also, frightened.

And, clearly, lazy. So much so, that instead of coming up with a post today, I just took my own comments page comment from yesterday, cut it, pasted it, edited it, appended to it, tossed in a "tit," some "husses," a couple extra "effings," and an "alright," and threw it on here, complete with this: My gift to you. A token of my love. A sign of my appreciation. And yes, proof of my instantaneous real-time reaction to your very real real-time needs! A special Hump Day Hussy! A Day After Hump Day Hussy! If you will! A Hump Day Hussy that very well might get me put on some Most Wanted List, or at the very least, get my phone tapped! But I fear not. I hide my humping needs from no one.

He's tough. He's Irish. He's cute. He's cuddly.


Ray Kelly, N.Y.P.D. Commissioner. Yesterday, you were my Hump Day Hussy.


previously
Hump Day Hussy #5
Hump Day Hussy #4, A Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3
Hump Day Hussy #2
Hump Day Hussy #1

Dear Evil Discussor... What is Asperger's Syndrome, and do I have it?

First off, a doppel question. But I will try to do justice to both parts. Medical questions are my forte, so I do appreciate the inquiry.

Asperger's Syndrome is a syndrome whereby you like to devour the ass as if it were a burger. You see no difference, no separation whatsoever, between an ass and a hamburger. To you, an ass is a burger, and likewise, a burger is an ass, and vice versa. They are both equally edible and, in your eyes, both equally delicious and delectable. Often, you like to eat the ass with ketchup, mustard, pickles, onions and lettuce. But, just the same, you might like it once in a while sans condiments, just to take in its full flavor. Friends and relatives of Aspergerians are recommended to stay seated whilst in the company of their aspergite relations, or, if standing is unavoidable, cautioned to always stand facing toward the inflicted. Unless, of course, said inflicted also suffers from Penisperger's, in which case, just get out of their fucking house pronto.

And to answer the second part of your question, yes.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why is my boss a douchebag?

This question was asked of me by a curious questioneer named dingbat. Perhaps a questioneer curious in many ways. One never knows. One does know though that the answer here is simple. And that One is me. And that answer is coming right now.

Because, bosses are douchebags, dingbat. Likewise, bosses are dingbats, douchebag. That's why your boss is a douchebag, dingbat. Because, dingbat, bosses are douchebags. That's why we call them that, dingbat. Douchebags. Why would we call our bosseses douchebags, dingbat, if they weren't douchebags? Dingbat, that wouldn't make any sense. Only a douchebag, dingbat, would call a douchebag a douchebag, dingbat, if that douchebag, dingbat, were not a douchebag. We call bosses douchebags because that's exactly what they are, dingbat. They're douchebags, dingbat. If they weren't, dingbat, douchebags, we probably wouldn't call them that. Douchebags, that is, dingbat. Not dingbat, douchebags. We'd call them something else, dingbat, if they weren't douchebags. Maybe dingbats, douchebag. But we don't call them something other than douchebags, dingbat. Cause, dingbat, they're not something other than douchebags. They're not not douchebags, dingbat. They're not not, dingbat, douchebags. They're douchebags. Which is exactly why we call them that. Douchebags, dingbat. Douchebags. And a douchebag, dingbat, is a douchebag, dingbat, is a douchebag, dingbat, is a douchebag. Dingbat. A douchebag. Dingbat, douchebags.

Douchebags,
E.D.


P.S. 34 mentions of Douchebag in one post. Make that 35. My personal Douchebag record.

P.P.S. 36.

P.P.P.S. If you're going to comment, please continue the douchebaggery, and try to have your comment include the word douchebag. Otherwise, you will be looked upon unfavorably. Like a douchebag, Douchebag.

P.P.P.P.S. 40.

P.P.P.P.P.S. "Douchebaggery" counts, right?

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. 41.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Stop.

Dear Evil Discussor... OMG!! Yes! Can it be? Is it really!?! Dare I say? Is it? Is it really SHORT POST WEEK?

Yes, it is, sweet fans of mine. You sweet, sweet, supple, short-attention spanned, slinkily sexy, sweetheart suckface suckers! This week is yours! It is SHORT POST WEEK, a week in which all posts will be as short as can be. Shorter than my Evil temper. Shorter than my Evil penis. Shorter even than the offspring of if, say, Mel Brooks and Stephen Dorff were to have a baby together, obviously through some sort of unimaginable, science-bending, history-altering, headline-stealing, experimental assplay gone wrong. That short. You are safe my sweet friends. You needn't no longer be overwhelmed nor intimidated by any of my overly-lengthy, mind-numbingly, paragraphically challenged passages. There will be none! Never! Or at least not this week! Even this one is getting too long and I must cut it off before

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just invent a word, cause you're so freaking awesome, you vainglorious bitchpants?

Yes. While perusing a previous post, as I am often wont to do, reminiscing, laughing uproariously, guffawing at my hilarious use of hilarity and wit, mentally masturbating, as well as just plain masturbating, I was struck by a word that suddenly came to me. Popped into my mind like a vivid memory from a distant past. A past, that was clearly not mine, but that of someone much smarter. And, yes, sexier.

ENTERTAINT (En-ter-tay-nt)

Definition
(1) to entertain the taint
(2) to have one's taint entertained
(3) archaic def. to entertain the taint using another taint

Alternative spellings
Entertain't (Commonwealth)

Verb
to entertaint (third-person singular simple present entertaints, present participle entertainting, past participle entertainted)

Usage
Heather entertainted me while I ate cereal.

Or That was awesome. Thanks so much for entertainting me.

Or Fuck, will you fucking entertaint me again? That was wicked.

Or Did you watch Entertaintment Tonight last night? Who was the secret birthday person? I accidentally changed channels.


Other words submitted for possible inclusion in the Evil D. Dictionary:
Blerd
Fucknose

Dear Evil Discussor... How do I not get Gawker to gawk me?

Um, well, you can write a post like I did earlier today. That might work.


Update... Hot Hot Newsflash!... Update... Hot Hot Newsflash!...
I have pleaded my way onto Gawker, and this post no longer applies. But who cares? And so what? Fuckit! My weekend plans are now set! I'm going to rub my privates all over this here keyboard from now until Monday morning! Bye!

Dear Evil Discussor... How do I get Gawker to gawk me?

If you want Gawker to link you in their Blogorrhea NYC section, and invite you in to their hilariously sarcastic, totally sardonic, zeitgeist-capturing, uberly-hip, douchebag-loving, something else-something, crazy media blog sex fuck party club, there are a few things you're going to need to do.

1. Be Lianne Stokes, The Assimilated Negro, The Daily Dump, or any other blogger that gets gawked four times a day, and has been blogging since the Roosevelt Administration. Either Roosevelt Administration. Both work for this joke. Cause both took place before the internet was even an itch in Al Gore's large pants. Which is a very long time ago. And which are very large pants. And which is my point exactly. The point about it being a long time ago, that is. Not the point about the pants. Which isn't even true, that these bloggers have been around for that long or, for that matter, that Al Gore has such big pants, but come on, it's all for emphasis, and I didn't have much else to say about them, and, anyways, you know what I'm saying. Which is a perfect transition to my next point.

2. Be not funny. Try humor, but fail. The gawkers are human too. And, not only are they human, but they're also bloggers. And when you put those two things together, human and blogger, you get something very interesting. You get a "bluman." And also, a "hugger." With a hard "u" and, come to think of it, maybe just one "g." But, nevermind that, dumbface. What's more important here is that you get someone who is deeply insecure, overly protective and defensive, and who, most likely, used to sneak into their big sister's room when she went out, just to smell her bra. And who has now found quite a large amount of success in certain circles of New York bloggygentsia. And who I'm rather jealous of. I would gladly fornicate with my own forearm, and a bottle of YooHoo, at the same time, if it would only get them to like me. But that's inconsequential. And probably painful. And anyhow, the question is, if you had a big-ass, popular-ass, crazy-ass blog, would you want to link other funny-ass bloggers, and share the funny-ass stage with other funny-ass folks? No way-ass. You'd want to horde all the funny to your funny self. That's right. It's like, when you were a kid, and Yossi Rousch wanted to play with your Captain America doll. There was no fucking way, right? So, instead, you kneed him in the balls and ran away crying. Same situation. You're a funny-hording, Captain America-clutching, cry baby fuckwhore, and so are the gawkers. Keep this in mind.

3. Add 'hyphen ass' to words. It's an easy way to be mildly funny but not appear too try hard. It will also make your post seem more edgy. And you, cooler. You will be popular, and the ladies will dig your shit. This is the language that blogstars speak, especially Gawker, and you should speak it too if you want to roll with them, don't you think?

4. Call people douchebags, douchebag.

5. Write a long-winded, just barely amusing, personal anecdote about some ridiculously New Yorky experience of yours. Like, say, taking a girl home only to discover he's a homeless tranny. Or any hilariously awkward situation that takes place in your apartment elevator. Or that time you got the hivvies on the Uptown 6 train. Or something about real estate brokers. Or last night's Murray Hill sportsbar crawl.

6. If none of this works, write a post in which you flagrantly and shamelessly refer to Gawker over and over again in a ridiculously transparent, mostly non-sensical, completely desperate, utterly pathetic, and most probably failed attempt to get on Gawker itself. Try to have no one notice this embarassing transparency by half-heartedly framing the entire post as a Dear Abby-style reply, and also, by anonymously and cowardly disguising yourself under a half-baked pseudonym.

7. Also, be sure to mention earlier in the post at some point how its important to "not be funny." And try to make many references to being "ridiculously transparent," "completely desperate," "utterly pathetic," "cowardly," and to your "failed attempt." That way, when someone deems you not funny, ridiculously transparent, completely desperate, utterly pathetic, cowardly, and failed in your attempt, you're totally covered. And you can just say, "Exactly" or "Right" or even "See?"

Good luck,
E.D.

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

Maybe it's because you hardly ever acknowledge me. Maybe it's because if I ever made an advance on you in real life, I'd be fired immediately, but on the web, it isn't real life, so I'm okay, right? Maybe it's because I can hear you on the phone right now, and trust me, "Your fiance" just doesn't understand you. Maybe it's because, at the last Holiday Party, I had a cigarette with you. Well, not with you, but you were outside too with a bunch of people. Remember? I made that joke where I put three cigarettes in my mouth? And drunkenly pretend to light them all? It was funny. Maybe it's because I once asked you how your weekend was, and you replied, "Too short." And I respect a woman with a sense of humor. Or maybe it's just because pant suits make me pant.



That's right. Woman in the next cubicle, today, you are my Hump Day Hussy.


previously
Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3
Hump Day Hussy #2
Hump Day Hussy #1

Dear Evil Discussor... If you had but one wish that could be fulfilled, what would said wish be?

There are very few things an Evil Discussor such as I need wish for. I have everything that my very Evil heart could possibly desire. I have Evil fame. I have Evil glory. I have Evil loads of money. I even have Evil Salad DressingTM (available at Whole Foods in Ranch and Balsamic Vinaigrette). And I have Evil you, don't I? What more can I ask for? The warm, comforting knowledge that I am wholeheartedly loved and adored by my ever-burgeoning fan base more and more each and every day. That's all I truly need. And you should know that I love and adore you right back in your fat faces. You do know that, right? Not that your faces are fat, but that I love you? Don't you? If I had but one wish, it would be to show this to you more. To make my all-consuming love for you known unequivocally. I really wish I could let it out from behind this monitor. Let it touch you. Sometimes I feel like the Phantom. The Phantom of the Blogera. Hidden behind this curtain-like computer, hiding, hideous. Half-man. Half-blogger. I swing from blog catwalk to blog catwalk, my bloggy cape blowing in the bloggy breeze. Using html as my mask, I, um, I... I can't keep up this analogy. It takes way too much effort.

Anyhow, I was talking about my love for you. The love hidden deep beneath my insanely svelte and taut exterior. This love that emits from my heart and mind, through my tappity tap typing fingertips, out through the very tippy tips, onto the teeny tiny keys, down some cables and wires, and maybe through some phone lines, up into a modem, out onto your desktop, and into your fuzzy heads. Or, better yet, off of the keys, around some cables, and in through your chest instead, heading right past your boobies, of course, sneaking a quick look, and landing straight in your hearts. I do like that love-route better.













It's one thing though to love you with my words. But words are cheap. Dirty. Useless. Meaningless. Throwaway. They mean nothing. Like, for example, the word moot. What the fuck does that mean? Or if I said, Fuck you, dicklies, I hate you and your doucheheaded ways, you fucking suck. See. I might have said it. But I didn't mean it. Or Get your stupid ugly fucking blog-filled heads out of your hairy asses and start doing something with your pathetic shit-stained lives. Again, I didn't totally mean exactly all of that. Just some letters strung together to form words strung together to form a sentence. And just barely. Nothing but words. And sometimes words just aren't enough. No, sometimes things need to be demonstrated with actions. With feelings. With touching. And gentle caresses. If I could but take my hands and shove them right into my computer screen, and reach through this very computer screen right now and have them come out of your computer screen, I would. And I would feel your face with my hands, a la Helen Keller. Imagine. Me caressing each of your supple cheeks, running my fingers over your ears and eyes, over your chins, gently circling your lips, maybe putting a knuckle up your nose, learning more and more about every inch of your very startled face.

Then I would use my hands to get some leverage, grab hold of the edge of your desk, and try to pluck the rest of my sweet self through, starting with my head and then continuing on with the rest of my beautiful body, eventually heaving my entire person out onto your desk and rolling effortlessly into a perfect sitting position in your lap, one arm draped over your shoulder, like a ventriloquist's dummy, somehow magically sporting a monocle and top hat. Then I'd exclaim, "Hiya, toots!" and out of the side of my mouth mumble, "Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, nyuk" kind of like I imagine Sammy Davis Jr would. You'd be sufficiently freaked out by all this, of course. Not only by the fact that a man just emerged from your digi screen, but by the fact that that man is clearly challenged in some way and most likely dangerous. But I would soothe you with my calming voice, and probably, if you like, a cup of green tea, if you have any, the tea and my sweet dulcet tones alleviating any worry you might have about this man who just came through your computer screen, and plopped into your lap, and now refuses to leave your apartment before being served a meal.












Let me just leave you with just one last thought, dear reader. If I can but teach, or touch, or entertain, or touch the taint of but one young fan of mine a day, if I can inspire but one sweet reader to aspire to greatness, to reach for the sky, to achieve the impossible, or at least to blow off work for another 4 minutes and maybe scan through this crap over lunch before going back to pokerroom.net, then I have done my duty here on Earth. I have done what I was supposed to do. And all is right with the world after all. Except for that whole global warming thing. And terrorism. And fine, some other stuff too. Like maybe children being sold as sex slaves, genocides, egg salad with too much mayo, etc, etc. But that's about it. And, come on. We can just shut that other shit out, can't we? Things are going pretty well, right? We've got eachother, don't we? And that's a lot. For love. We'll give it a shot.


Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why is it that the majority of the people on this planet are ignorant, stupid, lazy, incapable morons?

Anon, this is a sweeping generalization, and I cannot concur.*

Always,
E.D.



*The Evil Discussor blog is a legitimate blogging organization. An organization that will not post before the proper documents of proof can be found to support each and every one of its utterances. Each opinion expressed on this website is backed up and substantiated by days upon days of extensive research. The Evil Discussor himself, refuses to go online with a story until the proper corroborating documentary evidence can be put forth. When he claims that he is "the most hilarious blogster to ever hilariously operate a hilarious blog," or that he is "the king of the whole goddamn, wickedly wonderful, wonderly wickedful, wild and fantastical, digital festival, punch em in the testicle, world wide webbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb!" or even that he has the "longest-ass super long shlong," and, also, that "you're a douchebag," it's because it's true. And he has the documentation to prove it. Otherwise, he wouldn't make such a claim. At Evil Discussor Inc., we have an entire department of interns scouring the web, on the phones, at the microfiche, searching, seeking, scrupulously scrutinizing the truth behind the truth. We even have a position on staff with the title: Officer of the Proofy Truth. We don't just go around this blogorama spreading falsities, making erroneous claims, slinging wild accusations and unsubstantiated rumor without proper back up. We use a little something called facts. Facts upon facts upon facts upon facts. Upon more facts. The Evil Discussor refuses to generalize. For example, he would never say, "All blogs are amazing" just because his is wickedly awesome. Nor would he say, "All anonymouses ask really stupid, obvious questions," just because one does.

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you know there are people out there whose job it is to scrape gum off of the sidewalk?

It's true. Just recently, in the heart of horrible Midtown, at the corner of Lexington and 50th, there were these two guys in office building maintenance uniforms. You know, with that assortment of meaningless letters sewn above their breast pockets. ABM, or LCB, or BBDD or FUQ. They were standing outside of an office building, looking miserable and defeated, with these plastic sticks in their hands that looked like long ice scrapers. And they were hunched over, scraping away at old hard gum stuck on the sidewalk. And not having much luck with it either. It looked fucking backbreaking. Honestly. Can you imagine the persistence, the determination, the strength you'd have to summon, not to mention the self-repsect you'd have to to surrender, in order to firmly wedge some stupid plastic scraper under a year-old piece of hardened, stepped on, flatter than flat piece of gum, and really go at it?

Now, what kind of boss calls his two employees into his office, looks them squarely in the eyes, and says, "Now that you're done cleaning the boiler room, pulling clogged sanitary napkins out of the ladies toilets, and rinsing wet crap stains off of all the stall walls, I've got something else for you to do. You know when people chew gum? And they chew and they chew, and then when they're done chewing, when the flavor runs out, or they just get tired of chewing it, they spit it out? And you know when they spit that old piece of chewed gum right out onto the sidewalk? And how it sticks right onto the cement? And how, over time, the sun dries and bakes that piece of gum until it cakes onto the concrete, almost becoming a part of the sidewalk itself? Well, here. I want you to take these two plastic sticks and spend the next four hours or so righting that wrong." That's an evil kind of boss. Eviler than even I, Evil Discussor. No one should be made to scrape other people's chewed up, spit out, hardened gum. It's demeaning. And degrading. I mean, at that point, once you've ordered them to start scraping gum off of the sidewalk, you might as well add, "While you're at it, get me something to eat, you total fucking fuck. Then go pick up my dry cleaning. After that, wipe my ass with a moist towelette. Then, give me fifty dollars, just because. Next, put any two of your fingers in this blender. Once that's through, sharpen a razor with this leather strop, lather up my balls with a shaving brush, and shave then squeaky clean. Afterwards, bring me your wife and your first born daughter. And then the three of you can each blow me. Twice. From each day forward."

I know what you're thinking. Somebody's got to do it right? Someone's got to remove all that gum once in a while or else one day there will be no sidewalk. There'll be just a gumwalk. I agree. I just don't think that somebody should be a couple of maintenance guys who probably bust their asses all day already doing any number of ridiculously craptastic tasks, and don't need to be utterly shamed and humiliated by being forced to go peel gum by hand or stick off of the sidewalk, whilst the entire rush hour crowd is making its way home to the subway. Maybe at least have them do it midday, so I don't have to feel so damn guilty. Or better yet, why not hire these motherfuckers? GumBusters NY. They're called Gumbusters for fuck sakes. They do it for a motherfucking living. They bust gum. And look, they've got "NY" in their name. Which means they're fucking in New York fuck. It's perfect. They've got a special treatment. And a Power Washing Gum Cart that "devours gum." And uniforms and caps. Plus, they say things on their website like, "It seems like Magic, but it is research." Clearly, they know shit about shit about gum removal. I mean, they capped "Magic" after all. Bring in the professionals. And leave the maintenance guys with some dignity, dickhead boss. Or one of these days when you tell them to go scrape some gum, you might find yourself instead with a plastic-gum-scraping-ice-scraper-stick scraping the inside of your icy asshole, asshole.








I just got angry there. I'm sorry. It's because I am a champion of the downtrodden. The little people. The average, hard-working individual. Because before my meteoric ascent, my world-renowned popularity and acclaim, before all of this overwhelming fame and fortune, I was a little, average, hard-working person too, you know.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What is π?

Sweet frere Copyranter. I have no idea how you were able to type the actual symbol for Pi, but I have spent the last two weeks now trying to figure out this well-kept secret, and failing to do so. Until I finally realized that I can just copy it from any other website, and paste it in like so π. Aha! I was like Archimedes in the bathtub! But instead of a bathtub, I had Pi! And pasting! Now all I want to do is copy it πππ π ππ π. I'm Pi copy and pasting crazy! π π ππ yeahhh fuckπππ! However, still, if you know how to make a π using the keyboard, maybe with an option key, and maybe perhaps even some Wingdings, and I'm betting you do, then clearly, you are far savvier, technologically advanced, and nerdier than I. Yet, it would seem, not nerdy enough to know what Pi is.

Everybody knows that Pi is the ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle; approximately equal to 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494
4592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647
0938446095505822317253594081284811174502841027019385211055596
4462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527
1201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724
5870066063155881748815209209628292540917153643678925903600113
3053054882046652138414695194151160943305727036575959195309218
6117381932611793105118548074462379962749567351885752724891227
9381830119491298336733624406566430860213949463952247371907021
7986094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940513200056812
7145263560827785771342757789609173637178721468440901224953430
14654958537105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815
98136297747713099605187072113499999983729780499510597317328160
96318595024459455346908302642522308253344685035261931188171010
00313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349042875546
87311595628638823537875937519577818577805321712268066130019278
766111959092164201989 and so on.

Everybody also knows that Pie is slang for the female genitalia, much like axe/hatchet wound, ass mate, bearded oyster, beaver, beef curtains, bikini bizkit, cock holster, cooter, cherry pop, cat flaps, cha-cha, chuff, furburger, grumble, hairy goblet (what a knight might drink from), honey pot, honeysuckle, hooch, hush puppy, lick-me-please-me, muff, mud flaps, panty hamster, passion fruit, poonany, quim, southern belle, taco (pink), tongue magnet, velcro triangle, vertical bacon sandwich, vertical smile, wunder down under, the grand canyon, the great divide, horse's collar, clown's pocket, cathedral (my organ's never played in one this large before), mouse's ear, eye of a needle, box of assorted creams, municipal cockwash, penis garage, fupa, the real thing, batcave, blackhole, hole in one, spermbank, the mansion, home, hot and wet, the gold medal, tree house, stick house, the nothigam forest, fuckingum palace, subway station, the matrix, blue beard, shipyard (for dicks), crib, acid fish, baby atm, baby ben, baby cave, baby chute, baby factory, baby maker, badge, bakke, bald taco, Badly packed kebab, baloney hole, bank, banny, baginer, bajingo, bat cave, bearded axe wound, bearded clam, the beast, beef doorway, beef mailbox, beef sleeve, beefaroni hole, beefs, beehive, beaver, biscuit, birth canal, bitch indicator, bitch wrinkle, Black Beard's delight, booger bear, bojango, box, bread-box, brown bear with a mouth full of meat, budissey, bunsen burner, burial mound, burnt taco, bush down under, bushy plate, camel toe, cakehole, cave, center of the universe, cha cha, chaunch, chewbacca, chilli peeler, ching ching, choach, choachee, choncha, choochi, clam, c jay c, cock dock, cock gobbler, cock holster, cock pocket, cock socket, cock wallet, cock warmer,cocking station, and that's only halfway through the Cs on Wikipedia, nowhere near all the way to ziggy (as in: up your ziggy with a wa-wa brush.)

Everybody does not know, however, that my favorite pie, is lemon meringue.



Yours,
E.D.