Fuck you, TBogg, you cruel, insensitive bastard. All I've ever lived for is to sit on the set of some television wankfest, looking Ann Coulter right in the Adam's Apple, screaming that anyone who doesn't agree with me is a fucking moron with a dubious right to reproduce, or suggesting that maybe a trial period for mandatory abortions would be a good thing, or asking Michelle Malkin if she'd like to join me for some hot anchor-baby tapioca action.
But you, Mister Bogg, you with your highfalutin' blog that gets more than six hits a day, and your radiant family and your high-profile outing and your being noticed by people who don't know you personally, you? Have to step in and kick us poor little bitches with nothing but moxie and a dream, right in the fucking teeth? Your sadism knows no bounds. I do have moxie, I do! And no mean old celebrity blogger can tell me otherwise. Someday my ship will come in and I'll get paid for sitting here in my jockstrap and ballgag writing about myself, with an occasional interruption to imprecate Republicans, watch football, or spank the monkey. I mean the children. Spank the children. See? You have flustered me beyond repair.
You, Sir, are one coldhearted and vicious motherfucker. Consider my affections withdrawn.
Except, y'know, feel free to come read Minions and link to it and say bad stuff about me specifically, by name. With links. Heck, I'll even provide photos. Please. Pretty please?
The Accounting Beyond the Account
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