I thought we were friends. I thought that our mutual love of Wes Anderson films and This American Life meant something. Apparently not. Instead, it seems we also have another mutual love: my girlfriend Emily. What, you thought that I wouldn’t find out? Well, maybe next time you sleep with your best friend’s girlfriend you won’t leave behind a lovely keffiyeh scarf in the couch cushions. I’m keeping that, by the way.
So, let’s step outside and handle this like two grown men who happen to collect Star Wars figurines, i.e. so I can beat the living crap out of you. That’s right. It’s time to pay the piper. It just so happens this piper actually smokes a vintage pipe. But make no mistake, I’m going to hit you so hard, the probiotic microorganisms living in your lower colon are going to feel it. Now, take off those really awesome oversized glasses from Tortoise & Blonde so I can punch you, you back-stabbing son of a bitch.
During our time as friends, you may have introduced me to some great bands like Bon Iver and The National. But, now it’s time that I introduce you to someone. Say hello to Belle & Sebastian—my left and right fists. Two seconds after meeting them, they’re going to be meeting your face. Yep. Have Siri make a memo for you. It’s going down.
You know that feeling when you go to Trader Joe’s during the holidays and you search the aisles for those special Candy Cane Joe Joe’s, but can’t find them? Then you round the corner, and bam! There’s an endcap set up just for them! But then just before you can get to it, a woman in yoga pants and cute Nikes snatches the last box right out from under you. You know that absolute crushing feeling? Well, buckle up, buddy. I’m bringing that kind of pain your way.
I’m going to hit you harder than that hard-hitting Frontline documentary on the sex-slave trade in Pakistan taking up space on your DVR. Oh yeah, that hard.
I’m going to knock the Mumford out of you, son. Believe it. It’s going to happen.
I might even jam a few slices of gluten-laden bread down your throat and sit back and watch you get hives in four to five hours. I’ve got the time, and I definitely have the motivation, asshole.
That’s because even though your bike has one fixed gear, my rage has multiple gears, but no brakes, my friend. And I’m only up to third gear. That’s right. Just wait until I really kick it in. You haven’t seen anything yet. You’re going to be in a world of hurt. You can take that to the locally owned credit union!
Good luck explaining to all those testicular cancer-stricken patients that you aren’t going to be able to help this Movember. Because, so help me God, I’m going to grab hold of the handles of your handlebar mustache and rip it right off your perfectly moisturized face.
And before I shove your own head up your ass, you might want to remove those totally rad DJ headphones. I’m sure you paid a lot for those things, and I know you wouldn’t want them ruined. You’re welcome, motherfucker.
Sure, it’s going to be hard losing such an important member of our dodgeball team, but with two broken legs, I don’t see how you’ll be able to contribute anymore. But don’t worry. I’m sure Sheila will do fine in your place. Oh snap! That’s right, you’re getting replaced by a girl, you no-moral piece of crap. Stings, doesn’t it?
Look, I’m going to make things simple. There’s going to be two hits. Me hitting you, and you hitting a C5 octave like Win Butler on “Rebellion (Lies).” You’re going to scream so loud, that every Boston terrier within a ten-mile radius will come running. Yeah, have fun cleaning up after all of them, with compound fractures on both your arms. And that’s only going to be the start of your misery, you can be sure.
I hope by now you’re getting a sense of how badly you’re going to be hurt by my fury. If not, I can spell it out for you on your vintage typewriter. But I doubt that it even has ribbon in it, that’s the kind of pretentious turd you are. Other than your extensive vinyl collection and mad programming skills, I don’t know what Emily ever saw in you!
All this talk is making me a bit parched. I have a good friend who just opened an exclusive little speakeasy inside of an old water tower around the corner. They just put out a limited run IPA that I hear is fantastic. What do you say we go grab a few, and I tell you how your mother won’t even recognize you when I’m done beating you to a pulp? Cool? Great. Hop on the back of my early-model Vespa. Let’s do this, bro!