Dear Anonymous Person Who Continually Breaks My Heart,

Hi, my name is Jeff and I’d like to talk to you about something.  No, not diabetes, that’s Brimley’s domain.  I’ve been writing for The Last Gaffe for a few months now, contributing articles here and there in addition to my occasional articles over at Cracked.  I read the fine work of my fellow Gaffers (except for Malcolm, of course) and, when their articles are submitted, I Digg them (again, apart from Malcolm).  I mean, I Digg the shit out of them.

I think it’s important to give and receive feedback on articles.  Good or bad, at least then you know that you’ve really touched the two or three people who have stumbled across the words you’ve put to paper (figuratively of course, since paper is zooming toward obsolete status with each passing day, sort of like video tapes and Canadians).  That’s how a writer grows, by reading the praise heaped upon him or herself and completely ignoring any criticisms or insults.

Should I? Nah, too easy.

Should I? Nah, too easy.

And one thing I’ve noticed since I began contributing to TLG is this: I never get any fucking comments on my articles.  Well, I did on one, but that was mostly Malcolm and some clown named Son Tran, who may or may not be a Cracked writer with a furry fetish who has it out for me.  Or has a thing for me, I forget which.  Either way, Son, I’m sorry but I’m not interested.

Meanwhile, these other jerk faces get comments all the time.  Michael tells you all about being the meat in a man sandwich at the YMCA, Erica gets ripped and then mocks your beloved geek film Star Whores (that’s what she watched, right?  I was drunk when I read it) and you’re hurling comments at them like they are stones, and they just stole your goat back in biblical times.  That’s what they did back then, right?  Doesn’t matter, I refuse to recognize history prior to 1973.  I mean really, if Journey wasn’t around to sing about it, it probably didn’t happen.  Fuck you, “dinosaurs.”

Settle down, Attention-Whorosaurus. Youre just embarrassing yourself.

Settle down, Attention-Whorosaurus. You're just embarrassing yourself.

Now, I know that for the most part, internet comments are posted by halfwits and numbskulls, both of which are words I don’t use nearly enough.  But seriously, would it kill you halfwits and numbskulls to comment on my articles once in awhile?  I mean really.  What in the jelly bean hell is your problem?  Is this because I’m white?  Like, really, really white?  I mean, I’m almost translucent, I’m so white.  Is that it?

I give you people gold – gold – about such important hot button topics as Irish drunkenness, presidential elections (in movies, anyway) and Hayden Panetierre in a bikini.  That’s right, a barely legal teen.  In a bikini.  I point out the flaws of fictional characters.  I even provide pretty colorful photographs in the off chance that you can’t read so good.

And you’ve got nothing to say?  Nothing at all?  What are you, mute?  Well check it, Helen Keller, I don’t need you or your inspirational quest to conquer your disabilities and communicate to make me feel better about myself.  I can pat my own back just fine, thank you, though when I do so I risk pulling a muscle.  And that shit hurts.

What Im saying is that I would kick the SHIT out of Helen Keller (were she living today.) No joke, that bitch had it too good for too long.

What I'm saying is that I would kick the SHIT out of Helen Keller (were she living today.) No joke, that bitch had it too good for too long.

But it doesn’t hurt as much as the sting of seeing an article go un-commented on.  I quote the great philosopher and life coach Linda Ronstadt when I say, “it hurts so bad.”  And it is entirely your fault.  Sure, you’re probably telling yourself that I’m being contradictory, first saying I don’t need you or your approval, and then that I do.  Maybe it’s because I’m playing tricks.

Because I’m a ninja, and that’s what ninjas do.  Well, we also karate chop the shit out of people who act the fool, but we do so with great stealth and bitchin’ costumes.

I’m sorry, I’m just rambling now.  Is that what it is?  Is that why you don’t comment, because I ramble?  Are you saying I don’t get to the point quickly enough, and when I get there, my point isn’t so sharp?  Well what the hell is that supposed to mean, hm?

How else am I supposed to interpret it?  You’re the one who said it.  You’re just a cold, heartless bitch.

Just like this bitch. GOD, I hate her.

Just like this bitch. GOD, I hate her.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.  It’s just that sometimes, you frustrate me, anonymous internet commenter.  I don’t want it to be that way.  I want us to be close, like we were when we were kids.  Those were the days, weren’t they?  Remember Little League, and that time I took naked pictures of your mom to sell to our classmates of assorted sizes and ethnicities?  Good times.

Anyhoo, let’s get back on topic.  What can I do to get you to comment on my articles, friend?  Should I change my tactics and start being funny in my articles, rather than taking on all of these serious issues?  That’s it, isn’t it?  The stone cold sobering truth of my articles leaves you speechless, and depressed.  And then you hit the bottle.  Oh, how you enjoy your hooch.

Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.  Man, it was eating at me for awhile there, as though it mistook me for a delicious Cadbury cream egg.  Those things fucking rock.  Anyway, I’m glad we had this little talk.  I’m glad I was able to air out my feelings and frustrations, and let you know why you suck.  I think it’s healthy to be open and honest like that.

So, keep on keepin’ on, and you can all totally suck it.

XOXO,

Jeff

P.S. When I strike, you’ll never see it coming.  That’s the ninja way.  Plus, you’ll have your back turned and, most likely, you’ll be staring at your computer screen, totally not commenting on my articles.

P.P.S. The restraining order has not been lifted, Tran.  Knock it off.