Fuck you, Found magazine. Yeah, ram your two-incher all the way in your flaccid butt! You asked me to write something about found objects and I wrote it, you found it, and you said you loved it. And you never paid me, you cheap skanks!
And eat cocky, Jonathan Groce! You’re the casting director who contacted me to be on some cable show called Cash Cab, as you’ll recall. You said you were anxious to have me on, and I replied, “Sure, what the fuck.” And then months and months went by and you didn’t answer my calls or emails about whether you were still interested and if not, WHY not. You are horribly rude and unprofessional. It wasn’t MY idea to be on this freakin’ show. In fact, I’d never even heard of it! Take a cash cab to hell, babe. You are Groce!!!
And go fuck yourself…no, wait. I’ll save that one for another post. In fact, this one feels so good it smells like a series!