KSK Off-Topic: Lashing Out at Our Readers Because We Hurt the Ones We Love

Back in February, several astute readers noted that I never chronicled my tales of debauchery at the Penthouse party. I did this on purpose, even though I was photographed with a scantily clad Penthouse Pet. You know why?

Because fuck you, that's why.

I'm cool with being lampooned, and I have the ability to laugh at myself, but the scrutiny of anonymous strangers was reaching preposterous levels. What's with his hair? I don't like his shirt. I can't believe he's wearing jeans with a blazer. I can't believe he's wearing a tee shirt with a blazer. And the overwhelming favorite for ridiculously obvious statement: some variation of He's so pale!

Fuck you twice. My blood is German, Scandinavian, and English. I apologize that my ancestry has no Mediterranean, eastern European, Jewish, African, or native American influences. I come from a long line of Aryan racists, you see.

I actually used to be tan. When was that? My memory's not so good. Oh yeah: when I was defending your freedom. I spent four months living outside in a desert, sleeping on top of a tank, occasionally getting shot at, and spending most of my down time waving flies away and trying to get sand out of my teeth. I was really tan then.

By the way: you're welcome, you lazy fucks.

And now I live in New York City. It was both a business and a lifestyle decision. After living on a Marine base in the middle of nowhere in the Mojave Desert for three years and three months (note: tan that entire time), I wanted the exact opposite of that experience. Also, as an aspiring writer, it made sense to live in the city that houses every major publishing house in the country.

But hey, guess what? Yesterday it was 13 degrees. You'll forgive me if I didn't make it to the tanning salon.

Anyway, this has all just been a long introduction to show you this sure-to-be-classic photo from yesterday's Varsity Letters reading. I'd like to offer my sincerest thanks to all the great people who packed the joint to listen to a couple sports bloggers read. This is me offering a serious discussion of bukkake while Will Leitch looks on in terror.


Don't like my shirt? Fuck off. You know, in case I didn't make that clear.

Clear, like my skin. Har fucking har.