>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Boston

December 20, 2006

There are two ways we can wrap things up. First, the Seinfeld way, which could only be accomplished if I fed my dog Goldschlagger and let her write this up. Second, the Newhart way, where I reveal that the Canadian has actually been writing my column all along.

Screw it, we’ll do it my way.

As some of you know, I’ve decided to put an end to my column after 3+ years writing for the 2,198th most popular college humor site on the internet. I now have a career to think about and don’t need potential employers recoiling in horror every time they Google my name.

Some of you will cry sellout, and you’re right on. I am a sellout. Sadly, I have student loans, rent, a Dell bill with 33% APR (next time I need a laptop, I’m just going to rob a Best Buy), and a girlfriend (okay, no girlfriend—yes ladies, he’s still single). But I need money, and random pokes by underage girls on Facebook is not a legitimate form of currency.

“I’m moving on to mortgages, wine tastings and engagement parties. Have I mentioned how much I miss college?”

Has it been fun? Of course. My column was one of my favorite things in my life. Sure it nearly got me expelled and fired, but those are minor inconveniences to be able to write about whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want. I may never have an opportunity like this again unless Vogue asks me to freelance about the proper way to eat a wedding cake. And there’s still time. Do the right thing, Vogue.

I first want to stop and thank some people, most notably Court Sullivan, who read my Golden Rules of AIM piece when recruiting new writers in 2003 and never looked back. Except for a bizarre column written like a Penthouse letter, he never once raised an eyebrow to anything I wrote.

Same with the original crop of writers—Amir, Nicole, the Canadian, and Simonne—the latter of which is still an old bat like me and who I once turned to for girl advice when I was spectacularly drunk. I have no clue what I asked or what she said, but I’m sure it was helpful.

Also, the new crop, like DeGraaf, who randomly calls me at 2am., and is almost impossible to discern because he sounds like someone threw up a combination of a Southern drawl, the F-word, and Jagermeister. His voicemail following the Cardinals’ World Series win could only be heard by dogs.

And Gaudio, the Newman to my Jerry, who tried desperately to bring me down, but who wrote just enough lame poetry where I never felt he had the upper hand. Anyone willing to launch a pre-emptive against that supercilious, self-important ballbag Tucker Max is A-OK in my book, regardless of any past transgressions.

And E. Mike, for taking some of my edgier commentary in stride. If you can’t find the corollary between my writing and E. Mike, I honestly don’t know what to tell you.

And David Nelson, for cluing me in whenever some MySpace loser was jacking my shizz. (I’ve been learning to speak ghetto, thanks Muzzy).

And Ali Wisch, who brought a little much-needed class to the proceedings. Even though I’m still bitter I wasn’t the first PICer to grace Sports Illustrated, there’s always Cat Fancy.

And Chad Chamley, who will be writing his farewell column next week as well, pretty much just cutting and pasting what I’ve written here and calling it a day.

Speaking of plagiarists, goodbye Ben Feder. His rip-off of my “Mind of a Single Guy” article for a UMass school paper was the high point of my journalism career. Nobody plagiarizes crappy writers.

Also, Dog Poop McGee, who compelled me to never ever ever ever give a red cent to a university that would try so hard to stifle a student from writing.

Also Ramon Chacon, Brooke, Dirk, Rob, LTB, the soldier in Iraq who couldn’t believe a 20-something from liberal Boston was anti-war, every Yankee fan who responded to my criticisms with “1918” and “Baustin suX!!1!,” Peyton Manning (who I referenced in almost every column with derision), anyone who felt my feedback box was the proper forum for an Israel-Palestine debate, anyone who completely missed the point of my Katrina column, anyone whoever left a feedback along the lines of “I can’t believe a column called Casual Misanthropy contains so much complaining,” and all the women who said they wanted to date me but didn’t put their money where their mouth was. That feeling you have is called regret.

If I missed someone, it’s because you never pissed me off enough. That’s your bad.

I enjoyed myself immensely, and will always consider writing for PIC among the highlights of my college career, along with the time I drank enough Bacardi O to kill a small horse and called the cops on myself. God, I miss college.

In my three years with PIC, I won numerous Madden Super Bowls, turned 21, saw the Pats win two Super Bowls and the Red Sox (!) win a World Series (before they threw $100 million at a Japanese player whose never thrown a pitch in America), fell in love with Hilary Duff and later with Rachel McAdams, and did absolutely nothing for tolerance and understanding. What a chapter in a life!

And now that chapter is coming to a close. I’m moving on to mortgages and wine tastings and engagement parties and picking an insurance carrier. Have I mentioned how much I miss college?

I’m leaving you now with my sincerest thanks; I pissed and moaned a lot in this space but I have absolutely no complaints with you people. I’m happy I could help you kill time during work, between classes, and amongst hangovers. It’s been as much fun for me as it’s been for you.

So to my loyal readers (thanks both of you), I ask how can I say goodbye? I can only count one way.

Goodbye, and to hell with all of you.