Dear Noah: What the hell? – Jed, Thunder Bay, Ontario

Dear Jed,

My sentiments exactly, bro. What – I mean, what's happening here? How can I help you, sir? Are you ... Are you heckling me? Am I supposed to do crowd work on you?

What do you want me to do for you, man? Reset your router?

Know what I'm saying? What's the prob? I'm not there with you – I don't understand what's happening in your life. If your wi-fi's out, I'm hearing you loud and clear – but my arms are only so long, you feel me?

Meanwhile, you wanna talk “grievances?” I have to fill this column up every other week, and my only muse is a bunch of guys that somehow know less about sex than I do. Which is a minor fucking miracle, when you think about it. So before you open your mouth (or your email, whatever) to do your big high-concept “culture jam” on my broadcast, consider for a second what my life might be like.

What do you think is going on over here? You think I'm in St. Barth's with Gisele? Do I seem, to you, to be emotionally draped in the psycho-garments of the 1%? Do I look like I need the punishment? Look at my fucking face, man. Does this thing scream “Beverly Hills” to you?

Let's move on. From your magnificent inquiry, I can gather one of two things:

1. You're protesting, in a pretty broad and nongranular way, about the content of my column, and some or all of my previously published pieces.

2. You've stubbed your toe or had some similar domestic accident.

If it's No. 2, I suggest an aspirin. Also, here I'd like to take the opportunity to give a big shout-out to my editor, who clearly continues to apply only the most fine-meshed of filters to these reader questions. Really appreciate it.

Let's get this over with. Guy, do you realize what a disappointment it is to be me? There are people my age curing cancer, brokering peace accords, defending civil liberties – and I'm sitting in sweat pants looking up synonyms for jizz. By any metric, really, my contribution to society is, let's just say, unimpressive. Don't get me wrong – I didn't set out to change the world. But when I coined the term “scrotograph” to more efficiently explain “a picture of one's balls,” I pretty much made good on that promise.

If you don't like my column, then you and I have more in common than you think. Let's be honest with each other here: I'm in that shitty, un-blown place between failure and success. Right? No one would ever describe me as a “failed” writer, because I make a living doing it. But nobody asks the guy who admitted to trying to fuck a retard how he got his “big break,” you know?

What can I tell you, Jed? It's time to make the donuts. I'm no genius, but in my analysis, all of man's sexual problems fall under one of two major headings:

A) “I'm Dying To Fuck This Chick But She Doesn't Want To Fuck Me”

B) “I'm Tired Of Fucking This Chick”

The rest of the game is just transiting between A and B. So forgive Picasso over here, but I'm working with a limited palette. And dude – the nuance isn't lost on me – but that's just where the pornography, desperation emails and sending pictures of your nuts comes in.

Meanwhile, every girl I've ever awkwardly kissed on the lips reads this thing and gabs to her friends about what a “bad place” I must be in, and how “unresolved” my “latent hostility” is ...

“I read your Jew-y thing up on the website.” (This is a direct quote). “It was sad funny.” (Concerned face).

For white women, an ex-boyfriend “working it out” in public is better than Hermes underpants. You ever go out with a girl who talked too much about her exes? About how “unhappy” and “troubled” and “adrift” they are? And how “strong” they feel, now, for having finally rid themselves of that “weight?”

Yeah – that's me. So there's a major league roster of chiseled dudes who are hip to my, shall we say, archetype of dysfunction. And even though the stuff I say here is “just jokes,” I do happen to be at home alone with a chopped liver sandwich and my dick in my hand. So – to irony! Dig that. 

Now, just to recap:

I'm forced twice a month to attempt lengthy solutions to a problem that's only really solvable with homosexuality. I've failed, as an adult, to live up to even the remedial, “junior division” standards that I'd set for myself. And the only raw material with which I have to form something coherent to say – that is, all those girls that formerly associated with, or at least near me – are laughing to themselves as they play their boyfriends on the Scrabble set I'd left at their apartment.

And you're the guy with the moral outrage?

This is like everything else in my life.

How about this: I've got a couple questions for you – or for anyone else reading (hi Katherine! You shallow, morbid bitch). Why don't you guys go answer this shit in your sex columns?

1. Is love important because it's elusive, or is it elusive because it's important? If it's really “All You Need,” then why isn't there enough of it to go around?

2. Can I have my Scrabble set back?



1 Comments | Add a Comment
I still love your jew-y thing!
*Your Name:
*Enter code:
* Comment: