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November 05, 2021
Area Layabout Mutters Darkly About Man Who Got Up and Did Something
Intellectual lightweight and physical not-lightweight Tom Nichols, formerly of the Lincoln Project, has a bad case of the prediabetic grumpies over a Edward Durr winning a state senate seat instead of another witless, worthless pencil-pusher gravy-blooded pampered mediocrity like himself.
His kind -- the pathetic hangers-on and Bitter Clingers of the bottom rungs of the Sub-Ruling-Class -- are entitled to these phony-baloney jobs.
He thinks he's high-minded but apparently he's never heard the oft-repeated truism that sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.
And when they say that, they particularly mean this kind of thoughtless anti-wit.
You actually can write sarcasm with a bit of zing and freshness.
This isn't it.
Hur-dur hur-dur hur-dur, writing the opposite of what I mean is funny, because I mean the opposite.
Ladies and gentlemen, let's give it up for the last comic, Shecky "Burnsauce" Frankenstein.
Real intellectuals do their intellectual jousting in academic journals or tony reviews or on panels.
Tom Nichols does his on... Twitter.
While other academics are writing highly-cited papers, Tom Nichols is still giddy over having won the Prestigious BlueCheck Prize.
You know, the same BlueCheck that Grand Theft Auto livestreamers win.
I honestly, not joking around, cannot wait until this fat worthless shitmouth simpleton dies. I'm already working on his eulogy.
I don't like sharing work-in-progress, but this is what I have of the eulogy so far:
"The world lost a towering intellect today. Maybe, somewhere, like at Princeton or MIT or something, but I'm not here to talk about that.
"I am here to speak of this sad broken failure, this colossus of Social Promotion, this Yawning Pit of Mediocrity: wannabe Twitter Influencer Tom Nichols.
"Tom Nichols has at last succumbed in his long, long struggle against sexual inadequacy.
"He died exactly as he lived: just lying there useless and stupid like a two-hundred fifty pound bag of cuck pudding while his wife was occupied by a better man, her fingertips scratching down his back like Quint trying to summon a beleaguered bartender, her upthrust legs stabbing the air like the proud prongs of the mighty mountain ibex.
"Tom's death has left a little hole in all of us, a hole that immediately fills up with happiness. Or hunger. Or wondering if it will rain later. Or anything. Or nothing. It was a very little hole, because Tom Nichols was a very inconsequential person and he didn't matter and nobody cares and I wonder if it will rain later.
"The world is a better place today. The sun is a little brighter, and the air is a little sweeter, with not as much 'Arby's fart' in it.
"The birds sing a song to his memory. They seem to be singing, Who is Tom Nichols, and why did he spend so many years of his life tapping away on Twitter? Eh don't bother telling me, I'm already bored. What an asshole.
"Let us gather close together as friends to squat near to the earth and deposit our Communal Shit of Last Remembrance on this scrofulous degenerate's grave, and then think of him no more. Perhaps something good and green can grow from the Evil Fat that is his corpse, and the only legacy he leaves the world.
"May God take no mercy on his soul. And may all of Hell's devils rape him eternally, including in his weakling Coward's Eyes. Amen."
Ah, needs work. It's a little sappy. I gotta hurry up with the revisions, because this fat stupid fuck's heart is stuffed to the gills with cholesterol, choice selections from TGIF's Appeteaser (TM) menu, and a lifetime of swallowed tears.
I'll post it on Twitter so this pathetic social media addict, this pissant puffed-up office clerk writing his "scholarship" one shit-tongued tweet at a time, can have the mausoleum he deserves.