A year ago when Kent and I decided that we needed to take the internet, grab it by the hair, and scream hilarity relentlessly into its face, we anticipated a fanfare-filled welcome and untold wealth and fame within six months. That all happened, but shortly after we did our guest spot on SNL completely strung out on black tar heroine mixed with some meth I made using our hotel’s mini-fridge, we began our downward spiral into shame and poverty.
Kent decided that he should make a foray into a different “art,” as he called it – the XTreme Roller Derby. Much like Michael Jordan’s short time with the Chicago White Sox, Kent broke both his legs and was incontinent for a month after his first race. He took a swipe at Donny “The DamageEater” Dean during the first 30 seconds, and quickly tasted the bitter soup of retribution. He walks with a limp, and I heard he still has trouble “standing up straight,” if you get my drift.
While Kent was experimenting with the “Raucous Rolling Righteous Reapers” (everyone had an idea for the name, no one could say no) I was embarking on a perilous journey of self-discovery all of my own. I decided that what my life needed was a challenge. Challenge, I thought, looked like alligator wrestling in rural Louisiana. I took what was left of the fortune that we made when The Oxygen Network purchased our website (assumedly to remove two more chauvinist voices from the internet) and spent it on “Licky Lemmy’s Gator Trap.”
Don’t ask about Lemmy’s nickname. You don’t want to know.
Two days, half an ass cheek, and a vicious case of what the locals call “gator burn” on three quarters of my body later, I sold the Gator Trap to a drifter for $62. The bills were all wrinkled and stinky, but I was able to use them to purchase an inflatable do-nut to sit on, some aloe, and a bus ticket to Chicago.
I arrived just as Kent was rolling out of the hospital with two broken legs and barely enough pride to conceal the fact that he had to wear adult diapers for the next four weeks. We hobbled back to our downtown penthouse apartment only to find that our Swedish model girlfriends had robbed us blind, leaving only the eviction notice on our door.
Fast forward through the rehab/counseling/plastic surgery montage, and here we are. September of Two Thousand and Nine. We’re not rich anymore, nor are we famous, but we still have our pride.
And pride, friends, is what we’re here to talk about today. You see, although Kent still occasionally pees in his pants and I look like the leaning tower of Pisa when I sit down, we’re not completely devoid of self-respect. That sense of dignity is the reason why we’ve enacted a new policy here on TTM. A policy that, I think you’ll agree, is the beginning of an internet revolution.
You’ve heard of “assholes,” right? I’m sure you have. Well, we’ve had a few of those pop in here to the site and post some unhappy comments on our articles, defaming our content, our talent, and dare I say our very humanity. Distressed and having flashbacks of being straddled by an alligator named “Scoopy,” I called TTM’s Board of Directors for a meeting.
There Kent and I sat, thinking. What do we do about these jerks? Do we let them crap on us on our own site? Do we delete their comments outright like the thought police? Do we respond angrily to every one like I did on that Michael Bay article I wrote?
We couldn’t decide. Then, after a few slurpees and a late night run to White Castle (which ended poorly, aside from this epiphany) our minds melded and birthed out the best idea we’ve had since buying new social security numbers on the black market to avoid bankruptcy and jailtime for extortion (long story involving that Jewish guy from The Lonely Island) – we’ll just change their names to something insulting! You see, we have that kind of editorial power here. After all, we did pay for this website (in friendship and gratitude, thanks Isaac!) and we do have complete dictatorial power over it, so why shouldn’t we exert that power when some doucher thinks he’s boss enough to come tell us how it is? We’ll tell you how it isn’t, sir. And how it isn’t, is how you said it is. Or how you said it is, it isn’t that way. Whatever, you’re an Ass Goblin and now that’s what it says your name is. Suck it.
So if you’re tempted to post a mean thing on any of our articles, whether they were written by us or by a guest, we’re going to make it seem like you named yourself Butt Sniffer because you deserve it. This isn’t a democracy. This is a Theo-merican Republic where Kent and I have eternal reign. Does that make sense? On TTM it does, because we say so.
If you’re going to be a dick, you forfeit your rights to be treated with respect. It’s that simple, Mr. I Love Eating Poop.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make my appointment for restorative ass surgery. Good day.