I had a sobering day today. After arriving home from a relaxing, Internet-free Memorial Day holiday yesterday, I checked tremble.com, eager to see what wisdom and musings my esteemed guest writer had contributed over the long weekend. (As regular readers of this site probably know, I was experiencing some "reliability issues" with my first guest writer, and trying to keep a cool head.) When I discovered the site had gone fallow since my last post, to say I was disappointed would be a great understatement. I was livid, and I quickly dashed off an emotionally-charged email, which I'm reprinting here only in the interest of full disclosure:
Hey, dawg. It's me. If the appearance of this email in your inbox filled you with a small measure of dread, and you're now reading it with a shameful flush prickling your skin, I will take that to mean you are not completely selfish and unreliable.
I am not one of those Hollywood suck-ups with whom you typically surround yourself so I am not going to put on a veneer smile, pat you on the back, and pretend everything's cool. It is far from cool, dawg. I feel angry and, more than that, I feel betrayed. It was your idea to do the guest writing thing, not mine; you reached out to me on Facebook, if you'll remember. Of course I was going to say yes--I've been a huge fan since TWWW--but now I look like a fucking idiot. I sang your praises on this site, and hyped you up considerably, and you couldn't even post a 50-word entry about your long film career, the Presidential election, the last episode of Top Chef, the huge shit your labradoodle dropped today, or whatever other pendantic shit occupies your mind throughout the day. Honestly, it wouldn't have mattered. Readers would have seen your name there, and that would have been reward enough. But you couldn't be bothered to do that, could you?
If you have a good explanation for this, I'd love to hear it because right now I feel like you totally douched me out, bro.
I was obviously not in total control of my emotions and, especially given the circumstances, I kind of regretted sending that email when I read it back later. However, I didn't regret it nearly as much as the email I sent a few hours later, when I still hadn't received a reply from him:
Are you hiding from me? You can't seriously be hiding from me right now, you fucking coward. You fucking weak, pathetic, passive-aggressive old man. It's one thing to be unable to fulfill your (infinitesimally small) commitment to this web site--one I needn't remind you that you made of your own free will--but to add an atomic dick-punch to injury by refusing to defend (yeah, right) or even acknowledge your obvious mistake…well, that's just unconscionable.
Are you familiar with the Yiddish term, "mensch?" I'm guessing you've probably heard it before, perhaps at one of your rich Hollywood Jew parties, and surely in reference to someone else. A mensch is a stand-up guy; a decent man i.e. the furthest thing in the world from you, you bedwetting, menstruating man-child.
If you were thinking of replying now, don't bother. In fact, lose my email address. Then, if you have any free time, I suggest you do the following:
1. Grab a hand mirror and use it to take a hard look at your withered vagina.
2. Slam your head in a limousine door until you sustain a Regarding Henry degree of brain damage, enough to help you regain your long-lost humanity.
3. Finally, upon arriving at the epiphany-like conclusion that now is the time to make amends with all the people you've mistreated, ignored, or disappointed over the years, eat a bullet.
Made of Honor? More like Made of Diarrhea. Nice legacy. Maybe you could use the blood money you earned from that role and hire a personal assistant to fulfill your guest blogging obligations.
You are dead to me,
Obviously, in light of recent events I learned only this morning, I am deeply, regretfully sorry about what I assure everyone was an honest and harmless over-reaction of sorts. And please let this post serve as a solemn tribute to a man for whose work I have only the greatest respect: