Editor’s note: To add some context, this column was submitted to us in response to our recent writer callout.
Are you fist fucking me right now? You depleted, window-licking inbreds have gone to the absolute bottom-feeding shit pen to find writers — and expect to get good results? Part of me holds on to a strand of hope that this moronic tactic is a pathetic excuse of a publicity stunt. Or, perhaps, a ploy to get more accounts on your fossil of a fucking website. Jesus, I have taken shits that produce better results than you cross-eyed, cousin-fucking degenerates.
Unluckily for her, and luckily for you gel deodorant-sharing Magikarps, my dim-witted, big-titted secretary left her Twitter feed up on her work computer and unsurprisingly follows you lousy sacks of shit.
I spend most of my little free time helping those less fortunate. Rarely do I get the opportunity to perform a fucking miracle much like what is presented here today.
I was arrested at eight years old. Why? I caused a traffic jam — ONLINE. You are going to need an air traffic controller just to direct the influx of volume going into your ancient servers as a result of my good content.
I spend money like it’s a fucking sport. I could end Africa’s hunger problem with the tip lines from my bar receipts last night. I could save the spotted fucking owls with the money I spend on rubber bands just to keep my Benjamins from turning my marble-floored, 3,000-square-foot penthouse into a hip-hop music video scene. I play bumper yachts for fun. My guest bathroom has an extra toilet for their guests — and the lid alone cost more than your accruing student loan debt. I could use my fucking belt buckle as a down payment on an entire fleet of jumbo jets.
Unfortunately, making so much goddamn money so goddamn fast did not go unnoticed by the parasitic fuck faces at the IRS, and a large majority of my assets have been frozen. Cue the absolute rarity in my life where TFM could be of some benefit to me.
Cut the grade school bullshit bureaucracy here and let me take this company to the fucking top. What a sculptor does to clay, I do to failing companies filled with enough extra chromosomes to lose a game of rock-paper-scissors to a quadruple amputee. You know what they called me in high school? FedEx — because I fucking deliver. You know what they call me in college? FedEx — because I fuck AND deliver. You know what you and all the other simple-minded staff at Grandex are going to call me when they pre (that means pre cum, you fucking brainiac) their pants? God.
The TSM division will call me daddy, though.
P.S. I wrote this all while taking a shit.
Welcome to 2016 motherfuckers. I’m the captain now.
Capt. Clark F. Cunningham
The F doesn’t stand for Franklin. .