Fuck Myself
In critiquing everything about modern life, most critics fail to recognise that most of the work must “begin at home” before stepping out in the world to attack friends, family and passers by. (This is probably the smallest of the critics’ problems. One other glaring fact comes to mind: the fact that most of the idiots cannot write their way out of a fucking farmer’s field). Criticism should, nay must, start with the individual. For Mr. Brighton Lessard there is a wealth of places to start and such a tale would rival the Canterbury Tales for sheer length and crappiness. I will simply give you an abridged version that your soft mind can deal with.
For anyone who has ever met me my brain appears to be a bomb that is waiting to go off. Sometimes the ticking gets so loud that I have to sit down in a dark room and masturbate for several days. Most of the time the fuse appears to have gone out and I stumble around making bad situations worse and alienating everyone I can.
I can think of no harsher penalty to be issued to a human than being given the privilege of being my friend. If you have had the pleasure of reading any of my other readings on this site you will probably be surprised that I have any friends at all. Although they are few in number they are big in both girth and ego. I am of the opinion that nearly every single person on the planet is an automaton fuelled by greed, jealousy, pettiness, and above all, extreme selfishness. The Right Honourable author is no exception, but I tend to excel primarily in the selfishness section of the four modern human humours. It is probably very frustrating hanging out with someone who would walk over your corpse to get home to bed early, rather than stick around and have a little fun. When I want something done it must occur immediately and must be of high enough quality as to not drag my esteemed family name through the mud. In a sense this is an apology to the two or three humans that can put up with my self-important bullshit and constant playing to the ego grandstand. If it is embarrassing and difficult to be my friend, imagine having to listen to my droning monotone every waking moment of every day. Even I loathe that, so to my friends thanks for the years of biting your tongues and going through the motions of friendship. Your loyalty will be rewarded with a special place in hell.