This one goes out to all my haters. For my haters old and new, weak or strong, rich or poor, hairy or super-smooth and lubed up with body oil. This is dedicated to you.
For the hater who kicked me when I was down, straddled me, pinched my cheeks, and spit into my mouth as if I was a baby bird. Wow, I never knew a game of Cornhole could escalate so quickly.
For those who said it couldn’t be done. “It” being Kate Upton, “those” being her husband and bodyguards, “done” being enter into physical contact at a red carpet event. I was only going for a European-style greeting, Kate. That was all.
For those who called me crazy. Not the ones who said, “You’re crazy,” with a long vowel sound and a smile. The one who said, “You really are crazy,” during a fight. And then later, when things had calmed down, drove me to a Starbucks that turned out to be a Starbucks in the lobby of a mental hospital. I wanted to let you know I’m feeling better, and ready for you to cancel our divorce.
For everyone who has rejected me, especially Bank of America. Maybe my credit wasn’t so hot a decade ago, but look at me now. I was an early bitcoin investor, and I still don’t know what it does or is.
For every HR department who stamped “No” or “Crazy Person” on my résumé. Let’s not forget you can’t spell hater without “HR” and also “ate.” Which is all I’ve seen HR departments do: hate and eat. Allow me be clear, trespassing on Girl Scouts property isn’t what it sounds like. If society calls connecting with nature “indecent exposure,” then maybe society should feel what it’s like to lay on a sun-warmed boulder, hear the birds chirping while having its genitals caressed by a cool breeze. I had no clue Girl Scouts were knitting potholders or doing whatever they were doing below. This mistake should not preclude me from gainful employment.
Speaking of genitals, this one’s for Kim Leubecker, college alum; in many cultures, a crooked penis is not weird at all but quite desirable.
For those who killed my dreams, my actual dreams, the ones I have at night. I’m speaking about my children. Stop crying about how you need a blankie and generally threatening my rest. Wah, wah — I’m cold, too.
For the internet executive who said I’d never make it as a viral star. Guess what? I already came up with a new content series, which involves becoming the first human to document a 365-day juice cleanse. I forget what day I’m on, but I’ve already lost 87 pounds and my belly button has become translucent. So suck it, okay?
For the naysayers, I urge you: stop speaking in Old Norse.
For those who don’t like the way I look, talk, dress, smell, walk, tick my head back and forth rhythmically, floss in public, tell my coworkers to “have fun with it” even though we work at a funeral home, insist on paying for everything in bitcoins, create frightening CGI porn involving wombat-like creatures, wear a dreamcatcher as a necklace, always refer to 6th Avenue as Avenue of the Americas, and smoke comically gigantic cigars, I will dedicate the rest of my life to helping you understand why people like me are so amazing.
Finally, this is for the hater who once hated the player, until the player convinced them to hate the game. I was only trying to salvage our friendship, and I regret ruining Settlers of Catan for you.
On second thought, I would like to take back dedicating this to the strong haters. Unless it really upsets them.