All right, you nerds, I’m back, and I’m bigger, better and older than ever. Yeah, that’s right. I’m hip, I’m cool, and I’m 45. But the pathetic thing is, there’s just so many dumb crap-head jerks that won’t ever see this age, and no matter what else they did in life, that makes me more of a success than them. That’s just math. Forty-five is the standard, set by me, and if you haven’t gotten there yet, well, keep trying. But these worthless idiots? A bunch of never-will nobodies. Screw ’em.

For example, let me just start out by giving a shout-out to playwright Anton Chekov, although I don’t have much to say about him. Died young. Probably won’t come up again.

But F. Scott Fitzgerald? Get lost, you Lost Generation loser. More like “So you beat off, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” you Jizz Age jerkoff.

Jackson Pollock, you drip. Honestly, who needs your art when we have George A. Romero and bukkake films? You’re known for two things: constantly spilling liquid all over the floor and being a world-class boozehound. Wherever did you get your artistic inspiration, you genius? Your last and best splatter painting was all over the inside of your Oldsmobile’s windshield while driving drunk.

You know what’s funny, Emperor Domitian? When a servant rushes in and says, “Emperor, there’s a plot against you! Read this letter!” And then, while you’re like, “Wha—?” and start reading the letter, he just stabs you right in the groin. You have to admit, he got you pretty good there. I can’t stop thinking about what was in that letter. Like, was it just a copy of the assassination scene from Julius Caesar, but with that name crossed out and “YOU” scribbled above it? Maybe just a blank sheet of paper with the Latin form of BAZINGA written on it? Did he get you to read “I am being stabbed” aloud? You got owned worse than anyone in ancient Rome, and they had slavery!

Hey, Heinrich Himmler, Martin Bormann, and Karl Brandt! I don’t like you!

Steve Irwin, I’ll go easy on you because you’re slow, but you’re just Jack Hanna crossed with Johnny Knoxville. Your show shouldn’t have been called The Crocodile Hunter. I mean, obviously it should have been called The Short-Tail Stingray Hunted, but at the very least, it should have been called The Luck Pusher. How do you look around at the terrifying fauna of the world’s deadliest continent and say, “Yes please! Clearly, this is not God’s message that man was not meant to live on these accursed, sun-blasted lands, much less snuggle up with its venomous, razor-toothed monsters with puppy-dog exuberance!” And it didn’t have to be this way! In your show’s first episode, you went to Oregon to look at beavers. Do you know how popular your series would have been if it had been called Beaver Hunt? You’re a dummy.

Speaking of nature lovers, I won’t speak ill of you, Henry David Thoreau. (Go jump in Walden Pond, you lonely weirdo.) Not when I have Robert Louis Stevenson to call you an effeminate skulker for me. Boys, don’t fight! You’re both a couple of bronchitic weaklings who died at 44. I can’t believe you, Stevenson, dying of a cerebral hemorrhage while trying to pull a cork out of a wine bottle. If you’re going to move to Samoa only to die of a cerebral hemorrhage, it had better be from a head butt from one of the Anoa’i family of wrestlers.

Hey Marvin Gaye! This is your father, Marvin Gay Sr. You know that new sound you’ve been looking for? Well, listen to this! BLAM!

Whoa, was that Chekov’s Gun?! I guess mentioning him up top really did pay off later on after all! Thanks for the tip, dope!

I could go on. I could give Harold Godwinson a poke in the eye, grind Baruch Spinoza into dust, or wickedly burn Steve Marriott. But why should I waste any more of my time—of which I admittedly have plenty on account of my long lifespan—giving any more free publicity to a bunch of jerks and creeps and losers who suck so bad? If you’re any good, live longer, stupid! It’s not that hard! Simply do what I do and don’t die, just like I never have and never will!

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