Congratulations Bartleby Bonaroo!

Bartleby Bonaroo, fuck you.

Fuck you in your skin tight jeggings.  Fuck you in your vintage Converse shoes purchased at great expense two months ago.  Fuck you with your tube amps and record collection, entirely ironic, scavenged without permission from the homes of family and friends who “won’t miss it.”  Fuck you with your trust fund and your fourteen hour work week at a sandwich shop.  Fuck your shaved pubis and meticulously groomed moustache.  Fuck your trucker hat, your non-prescription glasses, your unwillingness to commit to even the most basic of choices.

Today you’re going to be particularly douchey.  Today you’re going to emerge from your Williamsburg apartment and, while walking to the 7 train so you can go to Union Square, you’re going to shove a sweet little Mexican lady out of your way.  You could just walk around her, but you’re going to give her a big push.  Then you’re loudly going to talk to the dim young woman accompanying you about how you see yourself as anti-racist, and how you’re not that excited for the rally at Union Square because, y’know, NYU kids.

She’ll nod at you without looking up, thumbing through her cell phone, but the sweet old woman, the poor sweet old woman, will have tears welling in her eyes: she, unlike your peers, will recognize how terrible a person you are and, thanks to some amazing magic that all Mexican grandmothers know (and normally utilize to make their grandchildren as cute as possible) she will slowly begin chipping away at the already rocky foundation of privilege you rely on to continue existing in a state of perpetual twat.

Congratulations Bartleby Bonaroo!

Congratulations Brisket Thief!

Your mom cooked all the brisket in the house, did it up nice with a nice rub and roasted it on a barbecue in the backyard, but you know what? Doesn’t fucking matter.

It doesn’t fucking matter because you stole it, you fucking prick. You stole every last bite. Now your family is crying while you lay in your room on your belly, head on your pillow, brisket under your pillow. It will make your room reek of meat, but the whole house will reek of meat because of your mom’s cooking. No one will accuse you of any wrongdoing, which will make it that much worse.

You got it into your head that you’d be staging an act of protest against factory farming by making your whole family miserable, but it turns out you just kind of hurt a bunch of people close to you by attempting to impose your values on them.

You’ll try to fix the whole situation tomorrow when you leave the brisket outdoors for someone to find, but in the end it won’t work out so well. Before anyone wakes up to discover your brisket package, a wild animal of some kind will happen upon it and tear it to ribbons. It’ll upset your mother tremendously, but at least it’ll take the heat off you.

Congratulations Brisket Thief!