This newsletter is a weekly (sometimes) list of people I am mad at. This is the list for October 22, 2021.
I did my niece’s birth chart last week and now I don’t think I like her anymore.
Ben Affleck.
The other day I went out for drinks on a patio in Manhattan with a few friends, but we couldn’t get the table we wanted inside, so my friend very calmly asked the bartender, “Is there a slaughterhouse nearby? I smell a slaughterhouse.” We got the table. I’m just upset that it worked.
I have always said that if I were a public figure and either Isaac Chotiner or Ziwe called me for a quick interview, I would simply burn every public record there ever was of me, take six sleeping pills and fall unconscious atop a freighter boat as it drifted off into the ocean, and I would then roll myself into the water and float (face up or down, I’m honestly neutral about this part) to the nearest deserted island where I would live the rest of my days, free of the fear of being Ziwed or Chotinered. Imagine my surprise, due to many recent developments, that it’s actually my former boss Ben Smith who I need to worry about. Anyway, if Ben ever remembers anything about me, like my name or place of employment or literally one single, solitary minute of the five years he spent being my employer, I’m doomed.
I always hated The Blind Assassin.
I asked my friend Adrian to help me find new sneakers and after arguing back and forth for a while because he has bad taste, he texted me, “you want some garbo like this??” and sent me a link to shoes I currently own.
You know what?????? I hate the No Bones Pug! Sorry! I hate him! He reminds me of the impending deaths of everyone I love, many of whom are about as old as the No Bones Pug is, once converted. The dog’s only like, 70 in human years, which is around my father’s age, and if I held him aloft ever morning and giggled, “BONES OR NO BONES, LET’S FIND OUT,” his first order of business would be calling Ben Smith and telling him the truth about me. I just think it’s time for us to be brave: Let me eat the No Bones Pug.
I’m preemptively mad at all of you who are upset at my request to eat the No Bones Pug. Grow up. Just let me eat him.
On Monday, a baby looked at me and then cried.
I know Elamin thinks this, pictured below, as his Slack avatar, is somehow a dunk on me, but it’s nice that every time he dares enter my virtual airspace, I get to look at my own face instead of his, which is truly ideal. Anyway, I know he technically has a daughter but I still think he’s a virgin. How’s that for a Ben Smith scoop!? (Do you think he calls them Smoops? I do.)
Since we last talked (long time, I know, but some of us have been too legitimately cranky to be funny-internet-cranky), I wrote about Marie Calloway’s vanishing act.
The Calloway piece was really good too!