Pwned! Your blog sucks. Your band sucks. Your art sucks. Etc.
By Daniel Taylor. Illustration by Clifford Greenwood.
Here’s the story. There is nothing you could possibly ever say that I could possibly ever care about. You’re not appealing to me in the least. I don’t want to chat with you online. I don’t want to add you as my friend. I don’t want to see if I can get your band a show in my town on either March 24th or 25th. I don’t want to come to your reception at Hipster Coffee Shop with Two-Buck Chuck and DJ WhiteKidWhoGotDecksForChristmas spinning totally ironic ‘90s hip-hip songs to look at shit that you traced out of an old Juxtapoz. You are not part of a movement. Your art fucking sucks.
Your blog is also a real piece of shit. No one cares about what you have to say. Period. Just because you read a Dave Eggers book doesn’t mean your life is worth fucking documenting. He made most of that shit up and it still wasn’t even that great. Your life is not tragic, it’s not exciting, it’s just ordinary and pathetic. No one wants to read about it, and especially not have to look at pictures of it. Your friends all look like assholes in vintage/mod/emo/indie eBay clothes and your girlfriend is probably the most pathetic of them all. Sorry if you think she’s totally the hottest girl in your little scene of trendy dive bar scumfucks, but she looks like the chic from Morningwood without the fat girl from Facts of Life cuteness. She needs to take those blanket ponchos back to Urban Outfitters and clean up her act. No one needs to look at 34 photos of her at the Myspace angle trying to look mysterious. She’s looks like every other girl at the Pitchfork Band of the Month rock concert except maybe a little stupider. You should wake up and smell the coffee. You will never have a hot girlfriend. No matter what.
Your band sucks. You will never, ever live out your dreams of being in a band that means anything to anybody except for your 5 high school buddies who always hoped that you’d make someday it so they could wreck some of the leftover gash. You can buy all the gear that you want, but it doesn’t make any difference. You don’t have what it takes. You can spam people online all day long, make your fucking lame CDs, “build a local following” and it won’t matter. You will always be a biter. Your bands will always suck ass. That mind numbing boring ass job you got “just until you make it” will be your only accomplishment in life. When you die there will be nothing on your tombstone but bullshit.
I don’t want you to ever fucking instant message me, trying to be super down with whatever it was I said to you one time. I was just trying to be cool because you bought me a beer. Then I had to listen to your lame ideas for the next half an hour waiting around for you to beat it. The sound of your voice is super annoying to me. Having to smell you standing next to me makes me want to throw up all over the place. I don’t even like having to look at you from across the room, or even seeing you out of window, walking down the street. Just seeing you anywhere, at any time makes me feel disgusting.
What you should do, is go get married and have kids as soon as possible. At least there would be something for you to do that would actually be worth anything. You should just concentrate on your stupid job and maybe get yourself some piece of shit Eurpoean car to make you feel a little better so you don’t just give up and be a transient. You never know, maybe one of your kids will actually be somebody someday. But one thing’s for sure. You suck. Everything that has to do with you sucks. Especially your face and your life.
Send Daniel some love: daniel [at] meshsf.com.
