EPT
Why, you ask, am I pissed off to such wonderous and frightful magnitude? Gather 'round, children, and hear my tale.
After several weeks of intense meditation in my broom closet, having locked myself inside with nothing more than a pack of dry crackers and enough LSD to depopulate an entire zoo, I had reached a moment of supreme clarity, a fragile fraction of time in which everything made sense to me. The feeling was akin to, after having lugged around enormous puzzle pieces for a whole lifetime, finally resting your withered limbs, brushing your long grey strands of hair to the side, gazing at your creation and, with a wide grin of satisfaction, being able to say: "Well fuck me, it's a unicorn."
In this flash of enlightenment, I knew my goal: to write another blog. So, I busted out of my broom closet, grabbed my cell phone and called Mark. Who is Mark? Well, he is the very crux of my current anger.
You see, Mark is my ghostwriter. I don't mean he is an actual ghost, because although they require only very little pay and have a completely worthless union, ghosts tend to have at best a difficult time holding pens, using a keyboard or otherwise manipulating the tangible world in which we reside.
Mark is, in fact, the guy who writes my blogs, my posts and even my signatures.
You might find this reprehensible, perhaps even a reason to limit the otherwise boundless respect you have for me. Keep in mind, however, that popular demigods such as Jay Leno, Stephen Colbert and George W. Bush all rely on meek English majors to make them look witty. If they're allowed to do it and still be able to walk the streets without ridicule, then so can I.
Anyway, here's a transcript of my conversation with Mark:
#1 Poster: Yo, Mark. Heads up. Time for a new blog. Write one about the life of pot plants or whatever dronebabo suggested.
Mark: With all due respect, sir, that's impossible right now. Haven't you been watching the news?
#1 Poster: No, I've spent the last few weeks exploring the inner reaches of my mind in a space no bigger than a death coffin. What's up?
Mark: Well, the uh... They're... The writers, uh... We're on strike, sir. In fact, we're protesting in Rockefeller Plaza right now.
#1 Poster: What do you mean, you're on strike? Since when do you have rights? Have you considered the possibility that I will kill you?
Douchebag Mark: Sir, I believe we deserve a bigger cut of DVD sales and on-line revenue.
#1 Poster: Do you realize that nothing you write for me actually makes any money whatsoever and I have simply coerced you into this with threats of extreme violence towards you and your loved ones?
Wimpy asshole Mark: I'm sorry, sir. You're just going to have to wait until this thing is over and our demands are met.
#1 Poster: *extensive list of expletives*
![[image loading]](http://img137.imageshack.us/img137/1313/ihateyoumarklg9.png)
This is Mark. He is refusing to do my bidding.
As you can see, this means I have to write my own material. Seeing as how I don't actually possess any creative talent and because I'm so darn miffed, I'm just going to make fun of Mark. Throughout the years that I've known him, Mark has been in quite a few embarassing situations. In a pathetic and impulsive move of revenge, I am going to list all of them for your reading pleasure.
- Accidentally called his employer "Mom" on several occasions. Mark is a grown man and I am his employer.
- Mourned the death of his infant daughter for over two weeks. You adopted her, Mark. Quit being a big baby. Jeez.
- Is a devout Catholic with stern faith in God. Fairy tales are for children, Mark.
- Thinks 9/11 was a series of coordinated suicide attacks by nineteen terrorists affiliated with the Al-Qaeda network. Wake up, Mark. It was the Jew Government.
- Cried several times during the Disney movie “Bambi”. I actually watched that movie with a live deer and it didn't even blink when Bambi's mother got shot. That makes you one of the very few things gayer than deer, Mark.
- Thought Donatello was the Turtle with the blue headband. You literally could not be any more wrong, Mark.
- Worked as a Santa at a mall until he popped a visible boner when a particularly attractive 9 year old sat on his lap. Maintains the bulge was a candy cane.
- Failed to remember I had a small but powerful explosive device installed in his wife's womb to force him into servitude. Will be coming home tonight to a crater in the kitchen, filled with pieces of bone and chunks of flesh. Fuck you, Mark.
