Back in 2009-ish, Adam Brown and Ian Fortey asked if I wanted to write for a small site they ran called ScenicAnemia. The site doesn’t exist anymore, but in the site’s final days I used an HTML-to-PDF converter and saved some of my articles as they appeared on the site as PDFs, which was kind of like taking a screencap of an entire web page. I recently rediscovered them buried on my hard drive and I’m going to share them with you, little by little.
First up is an article originally published on March 24th, 2009. It’s titled “Douchey Doucherton.” Notice how I mention Myspace at one point. If you want something to be timeless, don’t mention technology in any way.
I copy and pasted it from the PDF, so the formatting might be a little weird.
Read this shit…
In my group of friends I am looked upon as “The Writer.” I’m that one that writes for Cracked and that other site with the name that no one can make heads or tails of. I’m that guy that made a few semi-entertaining
sketches that have evolved in to inside jokes among the fellas of my inner circle. The one that writes screenplays that may or may not ever see the light of day. Of course, I occasionally get the ball-busting, “Yeah,
why don’t you write that in your diary, ya’fag!” remark, but that just comes with the territory of being a human male who likes to write that hangs out with other human males that love insinuating that I cry while I write, and the only thing that can bring the tears to an end are vast sums of dick clogging up my orifices.
It’s a cool gig, nonetheless.
But, there are some responsibilities that tag along with the hefty mantel of The Writer. Every so often, one of my friends asks me to help them write a little something or other. It’s never an arduous task that I labor over for weeks, all the while questioning my association with this responsibility dumping fuck-stick. It is usually a small, menial project that I can knock out within an hour or less with maybe a revision or two a day later. I never expect payment because they’re my buddies and I’m just stocking up on favor returns for when I inevitably need some clueless foils for spear throwing practice or an extra body to make the cluster-fuck an even 48. Seeing as how I have no concept of time (and rather than getting the time-frame of the event wrong ) I’m going
to go-ahead and say that over 1,000 years ago a friend of mine was arrested for street racing. I won’t reveal his name here, so let’s just call him “Douchey Doucherton,” a pseudonym he would have no objections to. Mr. Doucherton was riding along a busy strip of road that is typically loaded with police cars – marked and unmarked – hiding silently under cover of night, waiting patiently for street racers. Douchey came
upon a friend of his that has been known to be involved in a street race or two. Their engines revved, their sticks shifted, and their clutches clutched. They were off. About 50 feet later they were spotted by the
police and were promptly pulled over and sent to jail. Lawyers were brought in, and a court case ensued; nothing major, just a typical street racing court case.
After 300 years passed (again, my lack of awareness of time), Douchey is handed the court ruling, which I don’t remember. I think he had to do some community service or something, I don’t know. There is only one part of the court ruling that I do remember, though. I remember it because I completed this portion of the ruling for Douchey. Seeing as I was “The Writer,” Douchey asked me to write an apology letter to his arresting officer for him. After realizing that an apology from Douchey himself would most likely include the words “Pig,” and “Pussyshit-
lips,” along with a proposal to perform suction on his genitals, a declaration of faggotry, and an invitation to settle the matter with a street fight involving landmines attached to their fists, I decided to do Douchey a solid and just write the damn thing for him. I’ve always fancied myself a decent writer, but I do have one glaring problem that I thankfully only have to confront once in a blue moon. Apparently, when I try to write something with a formal, business-like tone I come off as perhaps the douchiest man on Earth. I don’t know why, but I just can’t be academic without coming off like a condescending prick of galactic
magnitude. Sadly, I realized this for the first time while writing the apology letter. I had the letter posted on my Myspace page for a long time simply because I thought the idea of me writing an apology letter to a cop for a friend was funny. It wasn’t until about 687 years after the fact (maybe only 2 years, but, really, who the hell knows? I don’t) that my friends began to take notice of the letter. They all, in near unison, agreed that the prick levels of this letter were off the charts; that in whatever building the charts were located there must have been a group of lab coat sporting science-types tossing down their beakers and Bunsen burners while calling the President and demanding that he enact marshal law before the marauders feed on the sweet innards of children.
Is the letter really that douchey? I don’t know. I’ll leave it up to you to decide. Below is the actual letter I wrote for the cop that arrested Douchey Doucherton some 4,000 years ago…
On (date you got arrested) I, “Douchey Doucherton”, carelessly broke a law that resulted in not only the suspension of my license, but in the revoking of my free will to operate an automobile. Before this date I saw
the act of street racing as a thrill whose ramifications would harm no one. I was wrong. Since then I have learned that street racing is not only harmful to myself, but to others around me.
Within the long duration of time that I have not driven an automobile I have come to realize that during that portion of my life I took the privilege of driving for granted. During this time I acted as though I were above the law and would never be caught in the act. Again, I was wrong. I am now fully aware of the fact that the only people that can even be considered “above the law” in anyway are those that enforce it. With that being said, allow me to apologize for any belligerence or hostility that I may have exuded during this very dark segment of my life. Each day that I see my car sitting idly in my drive way I regret ever getting behind the wheel with the intentions of street racing. It was a decision that has left a permanent mark on my record, as well as a permanent mark on my life.
On a final note, I would like to thank you. Thank you for putting an end to my self-destructive patterns. If it weren’t for you stopping me that night I may have continued with my ways and may have wound-up within a far
worse situation then I was. I can only be thankful as I am now able to swallow my pride and allow this entire situation act as a lesson to me; something that I could look back on not with regret, but with admiration as it was a Turning point in my life.