Being underdressed at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Queens — a feat that previously required full nudity — was a horrible decision that ultimately led to one of the most vile and memorable displays of wrath by a modern world leader. Like Idi Amin instilling the fear of genocide in the hearts of Ugandan toddlers, Dave Portnoy ruthlessly picked apart his weakest soldiers, one by one, all while threatening to banish them to cubicle purgatory — a fate worse than watching every person you ever knew or loved get slaughtered right in front of your helpless, little eyes.

As someone who has an impressively high tolerance for social discomfort, I can confidently say that the past two days at my workplace have been certifiably fucking awkward. I mean, holy shit. You could cut the tension with a $20 knife and dice it up with a third world dictator’s child-stained machete. At some points, it was so quiet in the office that you could hear the poppyseed that Ellie packed for lunch fall to the floor, and Vibbs’ stomach whisper for mercy as he longingly stared at it. “Feed me, Jeffrey. Just one little nibble.” The deafening silence was periodically broken up by the audible squeaks of Marty’s brain cell working tirelessly to process everything, but other than that — zilch.



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A diabolical domino effect that led to colleagues (with no prior beef) violently feuding with each other out of thin air. I’ve never read Lord of the Flies but I feel like it was a real Lord of the Flies situation.

But enough about people who aren’t me. Upon realizing the true extent of my wardrobe mishap live on air, I admittedly suffered a debilitating crisis that rendered me incapable of even producing words or phonemes on radio, a medium that predominantly relies on verbal communication. I was shook. I still am shook. Somehow, I managed to go from this:

To this:

I wasn’t necessarily triggered, but I did click on the profiles of all 208 of the Steven Glansburgs/aspiring RAs who “liked” that tweet and mentally roasted/blocked/reported each of them as spam. Then I had a panic attack. I provide zero value to my company — essentially, a replaceable and worthless entity. And it’s not due to lack of effort, because I’ve been sacrificing my health and wellbeing in my pursuit to put out the most unique and entertaining content possible. Obviously, simply blogging and yakking isn’t going to cut it for me. I need to find a new, profitable lane and dig myself out of this hole. But what?

Originally, I was going to pitch a game show mini series called “Call Her Daddy” (sponsored by Trojan) where I call up the fathers of raunchy female podcast hosts and play the audio of their daughters’ most sexually explicit episode into the speaker. The longer the contestant lasts without hanging up the phone, the more prize money he wins. The daughter can also win a cash prize, but only if I call her daddy and he stays on the line for the entire duration of the episode. I had a lot more ideas for the show, but then I realized the name is already taken.

Some other potential ideas:

-A satirical podcast called “Pissing My Trousers” (PMT) where I interview and drink alcohol with senile, old British men in an attempt to elicit the most inappropriate, problematic, and British responses/reactions.

-A merch line of jerseys (and shirseys) that say KB on the front and SWAG/the number 0 on the back that people can ironically buy even though they look unbelievably fucking stupid.

In all seriousness, I’m gonna be proactive about putting myself out there more and experimenting with different types of content. Please feel free to offer suggestions.

I just really would hate it if I had to resort to being a Stunt Cock. I don’t want that. My cock doesn’t want that.