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Don’t Read This…

…unless you want to be offended.

Very rarely does Elle become unshelled, but some reader comments have spurred this particular column.

For the most part, I ignore all comments on my column unless my editor sends them to me. I mean, I really don’t care what people have to say about what I have to say. Really, really don’t care. But a few comments of late have attracted my attention and I would like to clear some things up.

One person said I was a poor journalist. I must say, I am extremely offended by that statement. Calling me a journalist is the biggest personal insult someone could volley at me. Thanks. You hurt me. In my heart. Journalists, especially on television, make my intestines dry out and my poo turn to sand. I am not a journalist! I never will be. The last English class I took was 9th grade, and that lady made it clear that boys were smarter than girls, which made me want to eat myself into a fat suit and crawl into a non-communications career. (She beat me to the fat suit, by the way.)

Another person, obviously a Brit, called me a dumb-ass yank because I questioned some of the norms in Europe. I am absolutely not a dumb-as yank. I am a smart-ass yank who loves yanking your misty mountain chain. Keep falling for it, please! It’s good for ratings. Another Brit said what I wrote was absolute tosh. What the hell is tosh? Why don’t Americans speak the same language as Britons and use words like tosh and bollocks and prat? Because many of us left Britain hundreds of years ago so we could be oppressed on sunnier soil.

For the record, there are people whom I still find offensive because of choices they make in life, and people I may have inadvertently offended but didn’t mean to. This is my opinion. My opinion means nothing, just like yours. It’s absolute tosh. I’ve been told so by the queen of England.

The people I find offensive are many, though I actually do like most people and accept them for who they are. Swingers are still on the scary list, though. Sorry. I can’t help my gut feeling on this one. Who is babysitting your kids while you are out trawling your neighbors for takers? I’ll bet you don’t really care, and I’ll bet that as you are banging that wig-wearing honey at the key bowl party, you are not thinking about your kids, or your wife, or whether or not your yankeewanker is going to fall off the next day and end up in the kitchen trash because you aren’t using safe sex practices. Or maybe you are. Maybe the house is on fire. Maybe someone is taping with their cell phone, no?

I never meant to offend the foot fetish guy who got all worked up about my comments. Dude, are you looking to be pissed off? I was actually complimenting you the entire time. You are not as creepy as you think. Get on your knees and lick my dirty arches, bitch. No toes yet. You haven’t earned it.

I have exactly three fans that I know of, and they are all people I know personally. It’s mostly because I sit down and write this thing at 2:30 in the morning when my inhibitions have been absorbed by the dark for a few hours and just let it rip like an onion fart. I just write what’s in my head, which is mostly onion gas. Don’t read it! It might hurt you to see Freedom of Speech, even non-journalistic tosh, in practice. I don’t think it has to be good to be printed. It just has to be said.

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