#grant-woods.com

I’m here to drown these corny, busy-body, bullshit journalists.  For every clickbait article they write, I’ll smash their frail, non-callused hands in rat traps.  I’ll stuff them in used car tires and use their own low-quality newsprint as kindling to roast them.  Until I’ve eradicated the world of these useless fucks, I’ll take to the streets, snatching these early morning newspaper delivery men out of their minivans.

Sensitivity is at an all-time high.  I’m pushing all of my chips to the center of the table.  Let them come with their tiki torches.  Give them poster board and magic markers.  Let them surround me and protest with tears in their eyes.  I’ve got a can of hairspray and heart full of jellyfish venom.  I’ll get behind the wheel of a heavy piece of farm equipment and I’ll mow them down like wheat.

How ironic.  The gluten intolerant, evangelical vegans will scurry like field mice.  Wait until I get my hands on them.  To make my message clear, I’ll use the reaper’s scythe to cut ribeye steaks from their rumps.  I’ll cook them rare and force feed them their own tasteless asses.

The mediocre media stops here.  I’ll kick the doors in and drag the editors out by their neckties.  Try to barricade the entrance, I dare you.  I’ll come down the chimney in a ski mask like the misfit, adopted brother of Santa Clause, on PCP.  I’ll shoot flaming arrows into the printing presses.  Tell the underpaid janitorial staff to call in sick.  There will be an overwhelming amount of blood to mop up.  It’s not worth the eight dollars a day they are paid to do the dirty work.

It’s gone too far and someone has to step up to the t-ball stand.  I’ll gladly accept the position.  I’ll even wear a name tag and a smile while I do it.  Every schmuck with a keyboard isn’t a writer.  The same way that painting over the mold in your dingy bathroom doesn’t make you an artist.  

I’ll find you all, one by one.  As you’re working out that catchy headline; “Grunt Words singlehandedly kills print …” you’ll feel my breath on the back of your neck.  The next thing you know, you’ll be picking the copy room printer out of your teeth.  Spell my name right, fuck-o.

They all want to see their byline in print.  They don’t care what bullshit article it’s attached to.  If the editors won’t cut the fat, someone has to make them eat those poorly selected words.  A plastic funnel and a full, soggy Sunday newspaper will surely satisfy their appetite for nonsense.  Ads and all.  

Maybe tomorrow morning they’ll shit out something half decent.

Happy New Year,

*Don't forget to write your New Year's resolutions.