Brien Noonan, “Howabowchu cash me ousside?*”

Due to the fact that your parents named you one of the most common names in the English language but didn’t bother to look up (as in, “Google”) or ask a friend (presumptuous, perhaps, to assume your parents have friends) how to spell it properly, my guess is that you were raised by feral, illiterate, filthy creatures who’s entire home library consisted of a Holy Bible (still in the plastic it came in) and a Victoria’s Secret Catalogue that was sent as part of a promotion to your parents’ double-wide back in 1998, that your dad keeps around in case of emergency,—i.e. he can’t get internet access but needs to rub one out), and perhaps exempt from blame for your poor taste and lack of discernment. You don’t ask someone who was raised on a steady diet of HotPockets, Takis and Mountain Dew to determine which restaurants and chefs deserve a Michelin star and which don’t, for obvious reasons. Since you still live in their root cellar/basement, growing in size but not in culture or intelligence, your opinion of the best podcast in the history of podcasts carries less weight than a hummingbird’s fart. I pray you never have another satisfying bowel movement, I pray your phone bursts into flames before you have a chance to upload your babies first steps to the cloud, I pray you lose your right hand in a tragic fireworks accident and your left hand in the doors of the ambulance while you’re being transported to the hospital. *quoting Bhad Bhabie, so as to “meet/reach you at your level.”