I would like to think of myself to be, generally, of a level-headed disposition. In most situations where the majority of people would lose their cool, I tend to be the lone voice of reason in a sea of blood-thirty rage. Nevertheless, I have to admit that there are a few things, a few situations, which do nothing but send my ire through the roof. Possibly the highest on this list would be that of motherfucking assholes putting mustaches on things.
I’ve been getting a lot of viewer mail, lately, concerning my apparent degrading mental and physical state. According to many, my recent lack of involvement with VOID (combined with the state of my different social media posts) seems to add up to a steady, if not dramatic, spiral to self destruction.
Dear David Biagini, current owner of VOID.com,
First off, we hate you. Let’s not mince words. You’re sitting on a prime piece of internet real estate, VOID.com, and you are doing NOTHING COOL with it. Nothing. We here at VOID (I’m going to call us VOID PRIME for now, since we live on earth 1, which is awesome. You’re EARTH 2 VOID, which sucks. Earth 2 sucks. Earth 2 is like stuck in the early 1990’s forever. Which is awful.
The following is an excerpt from the pages of Professor Emil Hancock, whose studies into regional linguistics have taken him all over the world for the past three decades. He was especially interested in local slang - a study that has been dear to him ever since his 1979 study into the English word “crikey,” which won him a professorship at Oxford University.
As a flowering young lad growing up with comic books, I was exposed to many beautiful, buxom women in skin-tight clothing. It was like growing up in a gym in Miami, just....nerdier. From Wonder Woman to Susan Storm, I was constantly reading stories with these lovely ladies flaunting their...powers...all over every panel. It wouldn’t have messed me up, because I’m pretty immune to overt sexuality unless it’s actively trying to seduce me (sometimes even then), except for the one exception - Ororo Munroe - the X-Men member known as Storm
San Francisco is known for many things: The Golden Gate Bridge, clam chowder in bowls of sourdough bread, overpriced street trollies, inexpensive crack. These are all things out-of-towners can read about in any travel guide – or quickly find out about, depending upon where their hotels are located. We locals know of a different side of San Francisco – a side we don't show visitors because it's only amusing to people who deal with these things daily. Take, for example, the Mission Street Preachers.
Walking down the streets of this great city, one is bound to stroll by the occasional tourist trap or monument to consumerism- it is inevitable. Entire districts dedicated to the rise and fall of stocks, bonds, and the almighty dollar. Communities built out of our necessity for caffeine and non-filtered reds and greens, the demand for grilled meats and exotic tiki drinks. We look onward in awe over the vast hills and valleys scatter bombed with convenient stores and liquor marts.
Caleb Finch is deemed, by some, to be one of the most attractive men of our time. I find this concept to be abhorrent. First off, he is not a man (nor attractive) so the prior statement is pretty much just rubbish in a can (and btw Caleb, writing that on the wall of every port-o-potty you enter from here to another part of San Francisco doesn’t make it true).
As I continue to explore my various dating options, I find myself being balked at all ends for various reasons. Some girls are dating someone else. Others may find me unattractive. Others still, simply don’t want to make out with some drunk guy at a party (a position that I find deeply confusing). This is doubly problematic when you consider the fact that I generally don’t know if the above reasons exist, having - every time - simply failed to make an attempt in the first place. Whatever the reason, the subsequent party (or dinner, or bat mitzvah) ends, and I have nobody with to split the cab fare.
Hey, man. How’s it going? First off, nice bar! I didn’t think there were bars like this in the area. Great use of lighting. A lot of places get that all wrong, and you’d think that would be the first thing to do, am I right? Second, nice Manhattan. You make a mean cocktail, fearsome perhaps, and I don’t want to take that away from you. That being said, I have one small piece of criticism to make towards you. Colonel Sanders? Really? Colonel fucking sanders?
In troubled times, such as we live in today, one tries not to blow situations out of proportion with long winded hyperbole, and merely state facts and trends without untoward biased or subjective content. I, Caleb Finch (reporter), hope to quickly gain your trust as a writer of journalistic morality and balance. That being said, wearing leggings or tights instead of pants is the worst thing in the world, ever.