There’s Snark, and then There’s Being an AssholeLook, I like curmudgeons, and I love curse words -- all of them. I swear quite frequently, to the dismay of my conscience, and I enjoy every last filthy syllable. I also enjoy a good snarkfest, when it’s well-written, funny. I like it when people hate stuff, even if that stuff might include me (oh, yeah, baby, bring it on). It feeds my inner demons -- whose names are Catherine, Barbara and Billy, by the way. It soothes my self-loathing, my anger at the world, how screwed up it’s become, how unbelievably stupid I find most people despite my genuine empathy for them all. I’m a hypocritical misanthrope without a cause. To sum up, I like bastards and bitches, people like Don Rickles, Howard Stern, Rosanne Barr, Stephen King, Chris Rock and Margaret Cho...people who aren't afraid, are wound a bit too tightly, who are opinionated, who sometimes engage in socially unacceptable behaviors. I like insanity, and I like it raw, balls out. I like it with ketchup, hold the onions. Give me an intelligent nutcase with something valid to say.
Do not, however, give me a big tub of rancid lard, a thing of indigestible shit that stinks like Donald Trumps’s feet. Do not, do not, do not give me four letter words unless they are used to emphasize a point made, a funny quip or an angry diatribe of merit. Don’t throw them at me like a four-year-old who only just discovered how funny pee and poopy are. That’s just stupid.
If that tub of lard happens to be a man, and he often uses disgusting, insulting epithets to demean and intimidate women, that’s more than stupid -- that’s war. Tub of lard rates a thousand on my Hate O Meter. Perhaps even a million.
I have recently come across a huge tub of lard so revolting, so heinous and over-the-top “retarded” (his favorite word, it seems), that I feel compelled to defecate upon his unfortunate blog. No, I shall not link to him. Guess.
I went there, to the Tub of Trump Stank (my name for this blog), because I’d heard he was dissing a friend of mine, putting her down, yakking on her blog and whatnot. I’ll be honest and say that I didn’t, at first, think that the Tub of Trump Stank was all that bad, really. I mean, I’d read on others’ blogs about what a shitty writer the guy is, how boring, blah, blah, blah, but I found myself taking to some of Tub’s posts. Some, mind you, certainly not all. What a shame, I thought, that Tubby, Tubby, Trumpy Stanky Pants can’t keep his obviously miniscule member off his site; he rubs it all over the page, moaning, until he climaxes with uproarious self-loving laughter. It’s awful to see.
Anyway, I went back there, out of curiosity, and, because I’m an honest soul, I’ll also admit to sort of liking the Tubby fuck. Well, I wish I hadn’t. He was at it again, rubbing his thang up against his monitor, engaging in the most shocking display of frotage I have ever witnessed. You see, he disrespected another friend of mine, only this time, it was worse. He not only disparaged this woman, but he thought it humorous to make light (understatement here) of a nightmarish experience she’d survived as a child.
That won’t do. Oh no, not at all.
My fingers were poised to let out a vent of enormous magnitude, but then....I stopped myself. Because...because....because.
I was too sad. Couldn’t get up the gumption. Didn’t want to waste my effort on such a lost cause.
Rule number 5,097 of Good Snark: Say it funny, and say it true, even if it hurts a little, but don’t slay your subject. Ever.