“Why do I have to pretend I liked something that I hated? There were another group of people about 70 years ago who forced people to say things they didn’t believe. I’m sorry, I tried, but I don’t care for any of them. I mean it’s unfortunate that they died, they were human beings, they had families, but I didn’t care for any of them.”
“Oh do tell.” Said the CEO as we walked through Point Pleasant looking for the Mothman.
“Prince, it was chick music. It was boring. Did nothing for me. Plus he was weird. His movies were horrific. They were beyond bad. His entourage, what the f&$k even was that. I was like … who cares?”
“Well I thought he was talented.”
“Whatever. George Michael. Boring, chick music. Wham… are you kidding me? We are the world? That Last Christmas song was god awful tripe.”
“He was gorgeous, how could you, evil Botendaddy?”
“Carrie Fisher? If my dog was that ugly… and I don’t care about her dog at all. Don’t make me say it was cute. She was not pretty. Debbie Reynolds looked like somebody’s mom. And Eddie? No clue who he was. She was like Liza Minnelli, sorry not attractive. Both talented actresses but not pretty or sexy. That’s my opinion.”
“You’re a d@&k. A huge cast dongle. You’re a big meany.” Shouted the CEO as a weird creature flew overhead.
“The chick from Spaceballs? Hot. Daphne Zuniga, she was just plain pretty. Carrie Fisher? No. And no, I don’t give a rat’s hairy little ass about anyone’s stupid drug problem or booze problem or gambling problem or weight problem. I got my own f@&king problems, cracked pelvis broken vertebrae, six screws in my leg a month in a wheelchairbut I’m immune to pain killers, so I took nothing e-f&$king nothing for the pain and no one ever shed a f&$king tear for me. Did anyone cry for me when I was in the f&$king war, wondering if I’d ever see the Boten-daughter again? No.”
“Are you done yet?”
“No. Garry Shandling? I don’t get it. What was his schtick? Also I hated Whitney, I hated Tupac, (but I loved Digital Underground) I hated Lucille Ball, I hated Uncle Miltie, I hated the Catskills, I hated Dirty Dancing and Ghost, but I loved Roadhouse. I hate Oprah, I hated Seinfeld, I hated Tootsie, I really hated Van Halen, I hate Billy Joel.”
“Really, let it all out.”
“It’s like this, I am sick and tired of lying and claiming I like something when I don’t. I tried to be nice. I tried to pretend I wasn’t America’s most feared literary critic. I hate Stephen King, I hate Chabon, I hate Catcher in the Rye and I especially hated Lord of the Flies and that derivative horseshit ripoff of A Passage to India, called ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. And yes, I hate Woody Allen, I hate The Red Sox I hate Yaz and I hate Boston – yes every team. I hate hot weather and I hate Florida and Texas, and yes Philadelphians are way friendlier than those stuck-up douche bags in the Bay Area.”
“What so you think of us in the writer’s workshop?”
“OK, jejeune, derivative drivel, you’re all victims, all your writing is ‘ooh look at me!’ Yeah, don’t explore your real feelings in any depth, don’t write about your own experiences, don’t own your very soul, don’t explore your own emotional weaknesses, everything is your parents’ fault, societies’ fault. Is it my fault that you are are all shallow. shitty writers who excrete boring, drivelous, grammatically abhorrent tripe? When I’m reading your works I feel like I’m dying.”
“Botendaddy, your words make me feel small and dirty. MAKE LOVE TO ME NOW, DAMN YOU!”
I looked up to see the Mothman winking at me in agreement. Yes, even he, hated Van Halen.
Peace be the Botendaddy