Five cups. Six cups. Seven. I’ve got more caffeine in my veins than blood – you could stab me at any given point and five Starbucks baristas would spill from my guts. I shit more espresso beans than an entire farm could harvest in a week. My fingers look like ten stubby little dildos somebody forgot to turn off, but somehow I still manage to type away. I’m doing my best here to produce something potent – something of significant value. No, not for you, the reader. I only use you for your likes. And by value I don’t mean a wholesome article on stem cell research and five other household uses for dead babies. No, I’m stressing because I’m doing my best to out-write the rest of the Conceited Crusade. These fuckers have a substantial talent for writing whereas I simply know how to type. I used to simply ignore more talented writers, but now I am forced to face them head-on in a never ending weekly competition and I am getting Hunger Gamed. In fact, if this were the Hunger Games, I probably wouldn’t even make it past the first night and you’d hear that cannon mourn the death of a writer who tripped over his own pen and fell face-first in the eternal embarrassment of being less adequate than these other writers. That was a long winded comparison. Fred Colton probably would’ve said it better.
So, here’s my competition.
We’ve got Fred, a young teacher banging his way through South Korea and writing about it. He probably fucks as well as he writes which means I now feel inferior to the only two things I ever thought I was good at.
Underdaddy is a dad so good at being a dad he actually became a superhero dad. A superhero dad. I didn’t even have a dad growing up – but he writes so proficiently I live vicariously as his son through the stories of his kids.
YuMin Ye is published, won awards, and writes like the tips of her fingers are equipped with mini thesaurus guns. Pow pow – a perfect piece of literature.
Sam Lobos is the only writer I know who can write about the same two fuckers every day and still make her posts interesting. I just want her to fuck these guys already – the anticipation is killing me!
Babe writes about everything and manages to be killer at it. A hitman of literature – she’s drenched in anonymity, travels the world, tackles diverse topics and buries them deep underneath the “likes” of the interweb.
Gordon Flanders K.O.’d me with a single post. My only hope here is that he’s forgotten the Conceited Crusaders exists and I will outshine him only by process of elimination.
Then there’s me. The only significant thing about me is that I’ve gotten to third base with the most exquisite creature in existence and I might’ve figured out how to trick her into marrying me. I’ve written a multitude of posts about it but there are only so many synonyms for perfect. Still though, I suppose finding more ways to say the same thing is what has made most people famous. In fact most people get famous from just saying the same thing the same way but just louder and with a couple of more “fucks”. But, now that I’ve finally figured out what to write about I’ve wasted my post linking to every other piece of content on the web.
Ah shit. Well, happy reading.