In my rush to get all political and such, I forgot something. Simon Rich has written a new book. Is it crappy? Is it yet another pus-filled boil upon the once-unblemished chin of humanity?
It is not. Once again Simon Rich, son of a bitch that he is, has written another funny book.
I hate you, Simon Rich. You and your book deal and your nonsense. Your unseemly and inappropriate way of taking up too much space in my brain. I have better things to do, Simon Rich, than to fixate on your career and successes. As I'm sure you've got better things to do than to worry I'll jump out one day and stab you in the shoulder, but not very deeply, because halfway through my thrust I'll realize what a stupid idea it is to stab you, and create a whole mythology over your oeuvre, tragically cut short by a maniac who can't end a sentence when he knows he should, I mean here's good, anytime really would be fine, ok then.
But it doesn't matter. I'm still going to obsess over your youthful and overly-precious skill, and you're going to have to remain paranoid about receiving a frightful shock, and maybe a not-so-attractive scar.
If you didn't want some weird not-so-old guy cursing you and making voodoo dolls of you from couch lint and pages of the New York Times, you shouldn't have been all funny and interesting. I'm not sorry at all.
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