>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
July 25, 2004
For my loyal readers (thanks, enslaved malcontents) you like the way I work it. No diggity. No doubt. I shoot straight from the hip, I don't trim the offensive fat, I don't lose the rough edges, I create rough edges and embellish them, I don't hold back, I release forward, I don't beat a concept into the ground, I, uh, oh. Nevermind. The point is, I'm honest. And I'm being honest with you here. I have nothing to write about this week. Seriously. No joke. I've tried four possible columns, got pissed, and deleted them in fury. Then I masturbated. Made the whole experience worth it for me, but what about you, dear reader?
I am completely empty on ideas to write about. If Text-Heavy is a glass of water on a hot day, I'm a box of sand down your throat, ripe with seagull feces. I sit at my computer, staring endlessly, looking for ideas. Going through newspapers, TV shows, music, sports. Something. Anything. Give me just one idea to write about. I ain't got shit.
I don't know how many writers or would-be writers are reading this, but for you non-writers who have no idea how frustrating writer's block is, allow me to elaborate. Seriously, it's the equivalent of having a ridiculous boner during church. You know what you want to do, you just can't pull it off. (Even my metaphors are struggling this week.)
I haven't got shit for jokes, because quite frankly, there's nothing to joke about. What is funny, anyway? Your drunk friend falling out of a fourth-story window? Oh sure, that's good for a chuckle, but without context he's just a drunk and the window is just a window. Do you see what I'm getting at here?
Some writers write about dreams. My dreams involve Hilary Duff and handcuffs, but that would NEVER make a good column. I could bitch about the Yankees, but what's the point? You either love them or hate them. My words won't change how you feel. And if you love them, then you probably can't read anyway, so why bother? I could write about politics, underwear shopping, girls for the umpteen mcthousandth time. But I got nothing.
Some writers write about what their passions. What am I passionate about? Boy Meets World? My struggling fantasy baseball team? The economic situation in Libya? Where are my morals? My ideals? What kind of life am I leading where the most painful discovery of the week is that I'm allergic to mayonnaise and I can't watch Love Actually without crying like a bitch during her Red Zone.
Some writers are self-referencing, using self-deprecating humor to find funny. What's the point? All writers/comedians hate themselves. People with great self-esteems are never ever ever funny. Being a self-deprecating comic is redundant redundant.
Some writers write about sex. Again, my dick belongs on a milk carton. Vaseline and tissues are the only props in my sex-capades. Some writers write about being drunk. I've been drunk. There's nothing funny about being drunk. Alcoholism is a disease. Your friends think you're an ass. You can't put together a rational thought. You leave obnoxious voicemails for girls you've wanted since the Clinton administration, detailing your romance novel-esque attraction to them, and essentially signing your own restraining order.
Some writers write about writer's block, praying the irony will be serviceable enough for the dregs of readers who tune in ever Sunday to experience the writings of a hapless douchebag whose life revolves around Taco Bell and Madden. Who wants to read something like that?
***Special thanks to my Muse of the Week: Miss Brooke, whose guidance in my time of writing anguish compelled me to write this column. She's pretty hot, too.
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