Misattributions

These rumors of my bungling are greatly exaggerated.

So I ask, even though I know, oh—are you Danny Glover?

Dear Penguin Classics, I never believed the stories you published until it happened to me.

To watch Philip Roth detumesce is to watch the lowering of the American flag to half-mast.

Obama defends embattled administration; 'but I gave you new Arrested Development!'

Now watch me lay down this sick beat.

Feminism: a movement founded in the early 21st Century to criticize Lena Dunham

Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me.

DTF? I suppose I'm divesting total funding. Yes. Yes. I am surely DTF.

I am the Kanye West of fiction: popular, gifted, influential, and willing to make unpopular statements without the intervention of handlers.

Republicans: Obama 'Happy' with Mass Effect 3 Ending

This is an old song from the On A Friday days, it's called 'Sniffin yr Knickers.'

(Rubber, glue)

But he had one night a vision of a far greater writer, a pulchritudinous fellow with a fine Russian visage and a stern pellucid spark in his eye. The man's demeanor spoke of a genius subtler and more virile than our poor hero's own, and indeed scarcely had this man begun to speak—decanting in shamanic incantations a stream of sentences deft in their construction and fine in their effects, all cascading cadences and trembling ululations and plump red allophones—before our hero realized, with a terrible sinking feeling in his considerable gut, that the talent which he guarded so preciously was in fact a vulgar and meager thing, unworthy of anyone. He saw himself then not as an emperor over the realm of letters but as the mere custodian of a shabby and unfrequented public park, where slow and wall-eyed children enclose their mouths around the spouts of drinking fountains and swingsets smack them in the brainpan as bored housewives look on and smoke and dream of the plumber's thick thighs. Gazing out from his sad townlet onto the palaces and terraces of his rival's sentences—their resounding architectures, their velvet backdrops, their unglimpsed secret gardens—our Edmund wept; he understood at once the smallness and futility of his life; all his longest held and most deeply felt dreams crumbled in an instant into rust and ashes.

Hey, did you read that article in this month's Wikipedia?

Relax. I was just trolling. For the lulz.

All things must pass.