Ah, Link This

Enthusiasts, I have decided to withdraw my support for the latest Bobicle, appearing in this month’s GQ magazine. In fact, I denounce it and demand that it be exhumed and put on trial like Pope Formosus. SYNOD! I CALL FOR A FUCKING SYNOD!

Hey. Slappy. What’s going on?

You heard me. We’re having a Cadaver Synod. What do you even wear to a synod?

There will be no ecclesiastical jurisprudence on this site.

Mmm. Such long words. You know what they say about a guy who knows long words, right?

Just like literary society, I’m ignoring you. What particularly aggrieved you about the article.

Bobicle.

I can’t be forced to say that word, as it’s not a word.

It’s a Bobmanteau.

Why are you shrieking?

Okay, first of all: goofing on Bobby’s outfits is my shtick. I invented that.

You did not.

Second of all: this “Brett Martin” fellow linked to me to prove a point, but he linked to the old site and seemingly at random.

Why is his name in quotes?

Pseudonym.

For?

The ghost of Salvador Allende.

That guy hated September 11th before it was cool. But it wasn’t him.

Why not? You can’t be sure. The ghost of Salvador Allende would naturally want revenge on America, and there’s no motherfucker more American than me. I piss freedom and shit murdered abortionists, man.

Uh-huh.

And I’m close with President Nixon. Allende was not a fan of RN.

No. But it wasn’t him. Brett Martin is a real person. He mostly writes about food.

Ew. People who write about food should be forced to write about the food after they’re done with it. For every paragraph about the kohlrabi with Bayonne ham, there’s a corresponding graf about the doody it became 12 hours later.

You a little cranky, fella?

I can’t move anymore. My next move is going to be into a casket. Or a monastery. Somewhere I don’t have to carry 1,000 pounds of books upstairs.

Well, don’t take it out on nice GQ writers.

Fuck him. He doesn’t even follow me on Twitter. How much can he possibly know about the Dead?

…

You have a point.

I know.