Category Archives: tomfoolery

Cornelius Fakers, or "Protect Ya Neck On Ye Olde Interweb"

So – upon reflection, and after reading through that last Ramble I posted, I’ve come to a very crystal clear conclusion about myself:

I sure as shit hate me some motherfucking Cornelius Fakers.

Allow me to break down the etymology/Seanism for you – a Cornelius Faker is someone who is not who they present themselves to be. Taken from Fight Club, when Ed Norton’s character in the movie scribbles “Cornelius” on his name-tag at the Men Together Support Group meeting, and Meatloaf’s character – Bob – says to him upon looking down at his name-tag – “It’s okay, Cornelius – you can cry.” We all know what a Faker is – so, me being me, I slammed those two words together and came up with Cornelius Faker, which can be used to describe someone who is basically masquerading as something they are not.

There are plenty Cornelius Fakers running around out there in the world, free as a bird, not being held accountable for their fakery and their petty deceptions. I mean – let’s get on Front Street here – I was a Cornelius Faker for years. Full of so much shit that I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as my fakery, the stink of my lies oozing out of me like the sweat of ten thousand Phish fans at a festival in the middle of the desert in July. I lived that life for quite some time, actually – running game on people, making up who I was with each new smiling face I encountered. I think it was mostly out of insecurity, with a smidge of boredom thrown in for good stoner logic measure. Seriously – what was more fun when stoned out of your mind than creating a new persona to wow yourself with?

I had no shame. Truly.

I used to fake people out with all sorts of ridiculous shit. I remember once being at a house party, and telling someone that I had just met that I was writing a book from the point of view of a midget porn star. I explained, in very stoned but glorious detail, how I had come to the realization that these little studs were the norm in skin flicks from the mid-to-late 70s. Every fuck film from that era always had some weird scene where there was a little dude getting blown in the background by some blonde starlet – I used Behind The Green Door as an example of what I was riffing on, although the couple I was talking to had never seen the movie – which was perfect for my ruse.

I saw that couple at another party a few weeks later, and they actually went out and got a copy of the film and saw what I was talking about.

See? Mission Accomplished! I was able to get attention through my Cornelius Fakery.

And that’s really what this type of humanimal is all about – attention. They are usually pretty bright people to begin with, but they lack the social skills and the ability to articulate their lot in life without the crutch of being full of shit. I don’t want to go whole hog and say that all Cornelius Fakers are sociopaths, but that wouldn’t be too far off. Most of them live in this really dark and focused tunnel, where all they see is their con or game playing out – they miss all the nuances and details of the things happening around them. Daily life shit, like what their friends actually think of them. Hell – two of my closest friends when I was in my mid twenties tried to talk to me about this shit one night, and it took years for it to register – I was that deep in it.

But – the lights did come on in my head. Around the time I hit thirty or so, I started to live on Front Street. I stopped bullshitting people. I stopped creating elaborate tales to try and make myself seem like a much more interesting person. I was already interesting. I was already “cool.” I didn’t need to come up with all that fake shit to be Sean – the real shit that I had gone through was totally and ultimately way more entertaining than any ruse or tale I could conjure up. I could hold up my end of a conversation without commandeering it with some fake-ass shit to make motherfuckers pay attention to me.

I learned to breathe and listen.

In this super-infused-with-every-miniscule-detail-that-ever-happened Interweb Generation we currently live in, it is very easy for a Cornelius Faker to sneak up on unsuspecting people and steal their attention. I know – it has happened to me, more than once.

I got conned pretty fucking hardcore back in 2005. And, unlike other motherfuckers – I ain’t too proud to lie – it was a woman who burned my ass. Well, I am pretty sure it was. I met her in an online community of sorts, where everyone has profiles, like MySpace or Facebook – but this one was geared toward people of a different lifestyle. I had been on the site for a few years, and had amassed a decent number of friends/people that I knew – some of them even in Real Life. I had just found myself on the ass-end of a shitacular relationship that had ended in a really terrible and torturous manner. I was fragile. I was lonely. I was easy pickings.

It started off pretty innocently – messaging back and forth. You know – regular random shit that people do when they are trying to connect with another person. Likes, dislikes, all that junk. We’ve all been there, right? She touched on all of the emotional pressure points that I needed to have touched at that time – telling me she liked my writing, that I was “hot,” that she agreed with the way I saw the world. It was like virtually meeting someone who got “it.” That’s what so many of us use The Interweb for – to make some kind of connection with people that lets us know we’re not alone, that tells us we’re not so freakish and scary – hence, all those sites for Furries and all of those sites for Neo-Cons.


After a while, it became pretty apparent that this woman and I needed to meet. She supposedly lived here in NYC, and the cell number she gave me was for this area. We talked on the phone a few times late at night – her tiny little voice so cute and weird at the same time. She was supposedly a photographer, and taught classes at Parsons Design School – and even had a gig for me as an assistant, since I was having a hard time finding work at this point.

When I went to Parsons one afternoon to surprise her – they had no idea who the fuck I was talking about.

Riding the train back to Bensonhurst, I came to the realization that I had probably just been burned. This person never had any intentions of meeting up with me – all of the shit she said was probably bogus. I asked a friend of mine if he had ever talked to her, and he was hysterical – she had been sort of playing the both of us. We decided that night to fuck with her head a little bit, to get a little bit of Brooklyn Justice going for us.

Tragically, he was killed in a terrible bicycle accident less than two weeks later.

With all of the hurricane of the death swirling around me – I kind of ignored her calls/texts/messages. I wasn’t in any kind of space to listen to anyone at that point. I was in the midst of one of my biggest and most disturbing freak-outs of all time. I was still reeling from the death of my grandmother, the death of my failed relationship, and then the death of my friend – and I came to the brilliant decision to move my ass down to Fayetteville, Arkansas – to get away and collect my head, my soul. Plenty of my friends were aghast at my decision, but they were all smart enough to know I was freaking out, and needed the space to freak out.

So I moved.

It wasn’t necessarily the smartest thing I have ever done – but it served it’s purpose. I was able to get my head together. So much so, that when she made another attempt at conning me – I was ready this time.

You see, she created another bogus profile. And she came after me again. I even started to fall for it, until I started noticing subtle nuances in her messages – nuances that led me to believe it was her all over again. This time, she was pretending to be a girl who had brain cancer – she even went so far as to steal some girl’s brain scans that had been posted on the internet somewhere, and tried to pass them off as hers. Me, being the late-night paranoid motherfucker I am, well – I was able to blow those fuckers up and pull the right name off of them. I contacted the girl the scans belonged to. I told her what was up, and she e-mailed me back, saying that this person had been stealing all of her information over the last few weeks, trying to take her entire identity.

I decided to go along with the plan that my late friend and I had agreed upon – pretending like everything was all hunky-dory, and that she had conned me. So she would get lazy. I sent her my number late one night, and she called. Sure enough, on the other end of the phone was the same tiny and odd little voice. She confessed to creating that fake profile to talk to me. She confessed to stealing some poor girl’s identity. She confessed to only wanting to know why I had stopped talking to her in the first place. I played it all off like it was no big deal at all – letting her get good and comfortable with all of it. I told her that my father was sick, and that I was coming back up to NYC for a few days before heading to Santa Fe to take care of him, and that we should get lunch so we could talk about all of this in person. She agreed.

OF COURSE, the plans she and I tried to make when I was in NYC fell through on her end – she had something that always seemed to come up. I told her not to worry, that we would work it all out when I got back up after taking care of him. I went to Santa Fe, dealt with the hardest shit I have ever dealt with in my entire life, and then scooted back up to The City.

We would talk a lot. She would text me at all hours of the day or night. She was constantly e-mailing me pictures of her in NYC, trying to quell the questions I had in me about her real whereabouts – since I had become quite crafty, and was tracking her IP Address, which resolved to just outside of Madison, Wisconsin. I asked her what she was doing in Wisconsin one night on the phone, and the connection suddenly went dead. I tried calling her back, but she let it go straight to voicemail. This pattern continued for a few days, until I had the miraculous epiphany of all epiphanies.

Most people, and I’m sorry to say this, are not very smart when it comes to passwords and things of that nature. A mobile carrier will always set a phone’s password to *1234 for every phone – it’s just how they do it. And a lot of people never think to change it. They figure nobody can get into that shit, right?


The next time I called her and it went to her voicemail, I punched the numbers in and waited. The automated voice told me she had 13 unheard messages. 13? This was excellent news. I sat there on my bed, smoking and chuckling as I heard dude after dude asking her where she was – each one of them using a different name for her. Her voicemail was set up in a way that it read the number the message came from before hearing the actual message. I started writing the numbers down, corresponding them with the names these poor bastards were using for her. I did this for a few days, compiling a list that would eventually have seven dudes on it – five from NYC, one from Florida, and one from over in Scotland.

I knew I was about to flip the script on her. I was just waiting for the right time, the perfect moment when an opponent leaves themselves too open, where one magical and well-placed blow will end the whole dance. I had all the cards now. I could, at any moment, do the simplest thing like placing a call to one of the dudes, and blowing her entire little game up. But I was being patient. I was waiting for her to really slip up.

I know it sounds like I was obsessed and maybe even a little mentally unstable – which is probably true. My father had just died, and here I was, drowning my sorrows in whiskey, Xanax, reefer, and a wild goose chase with a Cornelius Faker of a girl who really didn’t deserve a nanosecond of my time. Hell – I was even taking calls from her while loaded at the bar, and begging her to come and meet me, knowing all the while that she would never do such a thing – she was not real.

Every now and then on the phone with her, I would let a name slide on out of my mouth – one of the names of the other dudes she was running her game on – like, “Yeah, my boy XXXXX down in Florida was telling me about some chick named XXXXX that he’s been talking to. She sounds like a real piece of work. I hope he doesn’t get burned again – he can’t take much more of that kind of shit,” and then she would react all freaked-out and hang up, only to call back ten or fifteen minutes later saying she had “lost her signal” or some other shit. It was seriously the best cat and mouse game I had ever been involved in, yet I knew all along I had won.

I finally blew her up one night when I was really good and hammered, laying into her about the ways in which people like her hurt people, about how she abused and destroyed someone’s trust. I told her that I had contacted the girl that she had stolen the brain scans from, and about how my late friend and I knew what she was doing months and months earlier, and about how I was just carrying out the string of what he and I had discussed that night. I told her that I had the names and numbers of the other dudes she was playing, and read them off to her one by one, listening to the sound of her whimpering and crying on the other end of the phone.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me? Please don’t call them! Please!!!”

Those were the last words I ever heard her say. I hung up the phone in between her sobs and gasps, feeling like I had done what I had set out to do. There was no need for me to call any of those dudes – they needed to figure the shit out on their own. Not my problem. I was able to free myself of this Cornelius Faker, this terribly wired emotional terrorist – freeing myself also from the feelings I had somehow developed for someone so twisted and full of lies. Yes – I had feelings for her. Those types of people always prey on our feelings. Sad, but a terrible truth.

After all of that – I am always a little leery of anyone who enters into my little world. Can you blame me? This world is overflowing with Cornelius Fakers, people trying to suck the energy and goodness right out of you through your little flat-screen monitors. Yes, I know that we’re all Nigerian Millionaires in waiting – we just need to send that initial wire transfer over there to unlock all that loot we’ve been promised. But at least in those cases – we know what we’re dealing with. Right? A Cornelius Faker is a little harder to spot at first – but I know how. I really do. If you ever find yourself wondering if someone you’re dealing with is one – shoot me an e-mail. I’ll gladly help you suss it out.

Cornelius Fakers. Sociopaths. See?

Be careful out there.


Filed under dumbassery, i used to be stupid, nuggets of infinite wisdom, tomfoolery, true stories from nyc, who is sean?

Enter: The Curmudgeon.

As leathered and as wizened as I try to liken myself to be, I am still a wide-eyed, filled-to-the-brim with hope kind of kid inside. Lately, I feel that wide-eyed kid getting smothered with a pillow by the angry old man inside.

Sure, just like everyone else on this planet, I have my likes and my dislikes. There are things inherent in human nature that make me want to start punching people in the throat without any warning. Things that people do that make me want to light them on fire in front of their fucking families.

Add living in a Megalopolis like The City to that equation, and the math becomes quite clear –

As much as I hate to admit it – I hate pretty much everyone.

Now, this isn’t hate on a racism-based scale. Nor is it hate on a socio-economic scale, either. This is pure, unadulterated disdain for people’s inability to think outside of the three foot radius that encompasses their pithy innermost being. This is scathing and boiling. This is acid reflux.


You don’t drink, so you volunteer to be the Designated Driver for a few of your “friends,” so they can go out on the town and get blasted beyond recognition. Before they start downing drinks like jackals on a carcass, they all make mention to you multiple times how much they appreciate you, and the fact that you will be looking out for their well-being during the evening’s tomfoolery. You, being a sucker, feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside, because you have allowed yourself to feel as though they truly appreciate you. You get this immediately grandiose idea in your puny human brain that the night will be all full of smiles and good times – even for you.

Oh, but you’re so, so wrong.

The first half an hour or so, you’re just enjoying everyone’s company – them with their cocktails and libations, you sipping on your ginger ale. Jokes. Laughter. Back-slapping. It really does start off like an atypical beer commercial. Even the chicks across the room are eyeballing the lot of you, staking out which one of you they’re going to sink their claws into.

Life seems momentarily good.

Entering into hour two, your game plan has switched the fuck on up. At this point, you’re trying to corral your buddy who has decided to repeatedly walk over to the group of off-duty cops and start running his mouth at them. And at the same time, you’ve got another buddy who keeps on running off to the bathroom with some skeevy fuck to do shit-tons of blow with. Your other pal? Oh, he’s over in that corner booth, fucked up beyond anyone’s threshold, making out with some seventeen year old piece of fine-fine jailbait that worked her way into the bar with her cocksucking skills and her older sister’s ID.

Fast forward another hour, and you’re actually contemplating leaving these fuckstains you call “friends” at the bar and to their own devices. You don’t need this kind of stress and static. You’ve been punched in the face already by the coked up one for suggesting he chill out. The slobbering drunk cop-hater has already been tossed from the bar, and you threw money at the cabbie, begging him to take him home and not wherever he suggests to go. The burgeoning pedophile is now in an alley behind the bar, balls deep in some girl who will end up telling her mother she got that herpes at summer camp. You’re spent. You throw your hands in the air and decide to cut your losses, gather up the troops, and try to head back to Real Life.

Not so easy, is it?

Even with the best of intentions, motherfuckers will bend you over and give you the old in-out, nice and dry. Your “friends,” when they eventually sober up, won’t even think twice about what happened, nor will they even be remorseful for putting you in such a terrible situation. They’ll all laugh and laugh, giving you the business for being so stodgy and “tight.” They won’t even remember what happened for what it really was – motherfuckers taking advantage of you.

Yeah, I know this sounds all bitter and shit. And coming from a cat who no longer imbibes, it probably sounds a schtikel righteous. But it ain’t. It’s analogous in leaning.

This kind of behavior runs rampant through all of us. Shit, even me. I loathe my own hypocrisy. I’m not gonna lie, either – I get all kinds of boiling on the inside when I have to deal with people out there in The City. This motherfucker is overflowing with scurrilous little shits that will snake your last piece of kindness like old Henry Bibby sneaking through the back door. Think I’m kidding? Watch the next time some fuckstains are walking across an intersection. They will slow their roll to a fucking crawl as soon as the light changes or they even sense you’re in a semi-hurry to get anywhere. Watch how the shitbirds will push an old lady out of the way to get onto an already over-crowded F Train at Herald Square. Look around you and see all the fucking scumbags eyeballing young girls like they’re pieces of meat they can go home and fuck.

Table for Mr. Bitterness? Table for one!

I always have a hard time trusting anyone. That being said, I’m also the kind of cat who will smile at a stranger on the street – genuinely. I was raised to be good to people on a basic level. My Parental Units weren’t uncouth assholes who left me locked in a cage and didn’t teach me any pertinent social skills. I can be gregarious and outgoing when necessary. I just, over time and through the repetitive beating The City gives me, have realized that it’s a mostly pointless exercise. Especially here in The City – motherfuckers just do not care. And that’s fine. That’s just The Way It Is sometimes. Life is the teacher, we’re the apt pupils. I’m learning.

Of course, there are truly amazing people here, just like Smalltown World. And the people I have in my own little world are dope, on every level. People I would jump in front of a speeding cab for. But the rest of The Great Unwashed?

Hell no, son. Hell to the no.


Filed under i'm still an angry motherfucker, tomfoolery, true stories from nyc

Let My People Go.

Dear Unbutu,

The Wife and I had a great time down on the Carolina Shore – our good good friends Jamie & Demian got hitched, and we made some new friends while we were there. The Wife did a fucking amazing job of making the already stunningly beautiful Miss Jamie even more stunningly beautiful, and Demian looked as handsome as can be in his seersucker suit. The weekend was flat-out gorgeous, and I am still in a sloppy sugar coma from all of that Southern Hospitality. I mean, c’mon – just look at the view we had:

There was a gang of tomfoolery going on over the course of the weekend, which of course tickled me to no end. I’m pretty damn sure that everyone I met had a sense of humor, since nobody hauled off and punched me in the chops for the shit that rolled off my tongue (and those of us in the know, well, we all know how easily that can happen!). It’s always a precarious situation for me, being in a social setting with people I have no clue about – it can be hit or miss as far as how I will behave and/or misbehave. The Wife seemed to be pretty proud of me, even commenting at one point – “You’re getting along with other boys!”

A young fella who goes by the name of Tad, made the mistake of making a passing comment about his former love affair with Jam Bands, which allowed me the freedom to unleash my relentless torrent of streaming hatred for the genre and it’s fans. He was a good sport, since every fucking time he opened his mouth I made him pay dearly by referencing his love for The Colonel. I think I might keep him as a friend, even though he lives in North Carolina, and kept on threatening to get me something called a “leather beard”. He didn’t even call out to warn me that I almost ran over a cop with his car, and I have a revoked license – which is a great way to start off a new friendship.

I met another fine gentleman, who refers to himself in semi-third person as Mike Kelly – which I found eerily similar to me referring to myself in the semi-Messianic third person as Fat Jesus. This cat is wicked smaht, and has a habit of dressing like a French Sailor because he felt like it was appropriate to do so, since he was already at the beach. Mr. Kelly and I seem to have quite a bit in common, which was a nice and welcome surprise – especially since I had no idea there were other people on the planet who take as much joy as I do in fucking with mouthbreathers. There was an incident where some oddball had me cornered, talking my motherfucking head off at one of the three hundred and nine pre-wedding parties of doom, and he commented about Mike Kelly looking a little bit like Buddy Holly. I couldn’t help myself, and set the rest of the evening’s lunacy in motion with one sentence:

You should go tell him that.

The rest of the festivites were a blur of Aquarium Rescue Unit/Phish/Jerry Garcia/Dirty Hippie jokes, coupled with Mike Kelly shaking his fist at me for sending “Trey” (the name Mike Kelly decided to call Mouthbreather Jones to throw him off for the rest of the weekend) into his personal space. Good times*.

*I’m pretty sure I was the only Jew in the entire state of North Carolina.

Getting home, on the other hand, was an absolute fucking nightmare of epic proportions.

Yes, your humble narrator wrote that review. And yes, your humble narrator has bombed The Interwebs with it. I am quite sure I have dropped it on every single travel site I can find, because I am a loud-mouthed Jew bastard from New York City. I have nothing left to say about the subject, and I am quite sure that The Wife and I will be flying First Class from now on, since this kind of shit doesn’t seem to happen to High Rollers.


Things of interest:

1) The Championship Window for the Phoenix Suns seems to be closed, sadly. That being said, this is as brilliant a eulogy as you will ever read.

2) Rival Schools is going to tour and quite possibly release a new album. This makes me very happy on many levels, because Walter Schreifels is a bad mofo, and has yet to release ANYTHING that I didn’t like. Well, other than the fact that he ghostwrote the entire CIV album, and no matter how much I love me some NYHC, that album was not good.

3) Nick Cave has the creepiest ‘stache. Ever.

4) The New York Rangers have heart. A lot of it, actually. Jagr has manned-the-fuck-up in the playoffs, and if they can pull off another upset tomorrow in Pittsburgh, I’d have to say they have a shot at overtaking the Penguins.

5) My dog is fucking rad.


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Filed under "whatever happened to...", dumbassery, husbandly duties, nuggets of infinite wisdom, rock and motherfucking roll, sean likes to curse and use italics, separated at birth?, sports, the wife, tomfoolery


Let me tell you this one thing before I cough up this lump stuck in my gullet:

I hate losing my temper, and I’ve worked really hard to eradicate the entire concept of “having a temper” from my mental hard drive.

Today at work, I found it, buried somewhere in the code.

It actually started brewing and stewing on Monday, but I was able to hold it down for a while. One of the chimps that works for me in the jungle I get paid to run decided he was somehow SMARTER THAN ME, and attempted to download some bullshit streaming radio/magic playlist bullshit – ONTO A COMPUTER THAT IS PART OF A COMPANY-WIDE INTRANET, NO LESS. Of course, since he is so much SMARTER THAN ME, he thought it was okay to click some little box that popped onto his screen mentioning that part of the deal involved allowing some web junk from an outfit with the genius name of OUTERINFO to EMBED ITSELF INTO THE OPERATING SYSTEM*.

It was brought to my attention by the chimp that is actually supposed to be responsible for that computer – he of the bottomless well of spelling and/or grammatical errors and his never-ending run of “TUPAC WAS FROM THE BX, JUST LIKE ME, NIGGA!!!” shout outs(I constantly try to remind him that he’s a Puerto Rican, and his use of the N word is gratuitous and silly – but then he says shit like “YOU GOT JOKES, KID? YOU’S A FUNNY NIGGA!”). This, is how he broke he news to me:


I just kind of stood there for a good long minute, marveling at his public speaking skills(another of his many gems that come rolling off his tongue when the mood strikes him – “IF JESUS WAS SO FUCKING SPECIAL, WHY AM I STUCK HERE IN HELL, B? I’M A FUCKIN’ CATHOLIC!”) before I responded with the very off-the-cuff “Just call IT and tell them to fix it, and stop fucking around on these work computers before I piss in your mouths”.



Yesterday, the shit started popping up on my computer, too. And then the female chimp that is supposedly my “assistant”(such an over-rated word, assistant – she’s about as much help as having a herpes outbreak at a nude beach) called me over to her computer to show me the ridiculous pair of silicon-enhanced cancer bags that had popped up on HER screen.

That’s when I really started to lose it a bit.

When the chimp responsible for this situation sauntered into work (10 minutes late, mind you), I asked him to close my office door and sit down. He somehow thought we were about to have a friendly conversation, because he immediately started to make small-talk with me. I let him talk for about 25 seconds before I lit him the fuck on up.


(That’s kind of close to what his face looked like, other than the race and all that)

After he scurried out of my office, I kind of sat there in a daze, staring at my screen and the wall of windows that were opening up all on their own – dating sites, used car sites, jugs, lost classmate search engines, credit report sites, wallpapers, free ring tones, more boobs, an ad for an ab-roller(even the pop-ups were mocking me at this point) – and I realized that there was no way I could win. The bug was embedded into the OS, and I was going to have to call my IT guys down in Memphis myself. Which I then did, and they told me to ship my geekbox down to them for rehabilitation(which I did tonight before I left work).


Anyone who doesn’t live in a mud hut in the middle of a rain forest knows what happened here in The City yesterday – a steam pipe dating back to 1924 decided to burst, sending all kinds of people running for their lives out of fear that THE TERRORISTS had made a return engagement. This happened right in the middle of rush hour, and right next to Grand Central Station – a major commuter hub. A commuter hub that happens to get used daily by(as if you couldn’t guess already!) – PEPTO.

Pepto called me at 5:12AM, to let me know that he wasn’t going to make it in today, because there was supposedly ASBESTOS being released into the air.


Look – anyone who grew up here in the Northeast, let alone in The City or any of the suburbs surrounding it, has already been plenty exposed to asbestos. It’s in all the schools, libraries, apartment buildings, train stations, and breakfast cereals in the area. Not to mention the fact that the environment in which Pepto works is filled with paper and toner dust from the Reprographic machines.


It never ceases to amaze me how easily the general population will take advantage of something semi-tragic and/or cataclysmic so that they can malinger.

Pepto, of course, is in his own motherfucking league.

I’ll spare you all the play-by-play, but I’ll tell you this much – his retardery today certainly didn’t do anything to make my overall mood any better. I no longer have a geekbox to use at work, which renders me useless. My employees are all escapees from Planet Mongo.

And I’m fucking sleepy.

Good night, and good luck.

*I know nothing about computers – I just know mine is broken.


Filed under dumbassery, fun at work, Pepto, racism, tomfoolery


Dear Sir,

Let me first start off by telling you that I find your work/writing to be quite entertaining and well put-together. I have yet to read anything that you’ve done that I didn’t enjoy on some basic and pleasing level. Most of my friends enjoy your work as well, and we’ve had many a conversation about the points/ideas/riffs you put into your collected volume of work.

That being said, I’d also like to bring to your attention that you, Sir, are a thieving magpie.

I know that we have never crossed paths, even though we live in the same Megatropolis. I’ve even spent time in the same taverns that you supposedly haunt, but I’ve never seen hide nor hair of you (I am certainly not stalking you*, as you’re not my type at all – I’m quite heterosexual). The likelihood of you and I being in the same place at the same time is quite ludicrous, seeing as how you are a well-paid and published author, whereas I am a lowly blogger who works a regular job to support my Marlboro Menthol Lights habit.

There are entire passages in your collected works that seem eerily lifted from my own brain, Sir.

I understand that me even writing this “letter” makes me seem as though I suffer from acute Apophenia (Google it, smartypants), but I assure you – I am quite sure that you must be some kind of alien life form that is sucking my thoughts from deep within the gooey grey matter that is my brain.

Mind you, that entire “33” chapter in Sex, Drugs And Cocoa Puffs was certainly NOT lifted from my thoughts, as I have never been a fan of Larry Bird, The City of Boston nor any professional sports franchise that makes said city their home, Republicans, and/or anyone who they themselves happen to be a fan of these things. I could care less about French Lick’s finest or any of his Celtic brethren (though I did, for a brief time, have a soft-spot for The Chief, as I too was an avid user of THC for a great number of years – but that is neither here nor there).

But the Led Zeppelin thing?

You done did rip that shit straight the fuck on out of my head, Sir.

As I read that chapter (you know – the one where you’re rocketing through the barren wastelands of Montana, “Whole Lotta Love” blaring as you contemplate dinosaurs roaming the earth), I felt my personae disappearing from my being. I started to hyperventilate (and my being a hypochondriac Jew has nothing to do with this), because the passages of words you had smashed together read as if I, MYSELF, HAD SPOKEN THEM.


It’s not just the stuff about Led Zeppelin, either – the piece about being within close proximity to a serial killer hit close to home, as I once lived in the same apartment complex as “The Phoenix Serial Shooter” (I can neither confirm nor deny that I had anything to do with his general distaste for human life – I just know he was fucking weird, liked boxing, and that he ran like a girl). I also felt as though your ESPN piece about Ali being “the first rapper” was lifted from a conversation I had with my late father, wherein I was trying to explain to him the origins of Hip Hop, and about how he’d actually been exposed to it for far longer than he thought.

All silliness aside – as I stated earlier – I quite enjoy your work. I was recently re-reading parts of Klosterman IV, and found myself actually LOLing a wee bit (and The Wife asked me why I was laughing at you if I hate you so much – so I had to explain to her that using the word “hate” in regards to you is actually my way of saying that I am envious of your abilities, to which she casually replied “That’s so mature of you, honey”).

85% of me would like to challenge you, Sir, to an Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton-type duel.

But the other 15% of me knows better. Knowing that my middle name IS Hamilton is pretty much the only mitigating factor that continually dissuades me from doing such a thing (I’m not as think as you dumb I am, you rapscallion!).

In closing, I hope this open letter finds you in good health, and that your prosperity and popularity continue to swell. Everybody loves you, Sir –


Sean H. Doyle, (NotCurrentlyAWriterFor)Esquire

*Although… I do recall having a whiskey-fueled conversation with my Canukistani comrade-in-non-publishing that loosely ran along the lines of –

Me: “Fucking Klosterman, man. He seems like the kind of motherfucker, that if he were my roommate, I’d cut him up into little tiny pieces and stuff him into a footlocker”.

Him: “Easy there, Francis. Have another whiskey”.

Me: “Fine. I’m just saying – that motherfucker is somehow stealing my thoughts, and he should pay for them, goddammit”.

Him: “Look! A fresh glass of whiskey. You should drink it.”

Me: “Guhhhhhhhhhh”.

Him: “So…about those Leafs…”.

At that point, all I remember is waking up on the steps of a church on Avenue A, wearing a bloodied Darcy Tucker jersey and little else. Fucking sneaky Canukistanis – always trying to stop premeditated murders.

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