Leave it to some guy who writes for Slate to be in fourth place out of three million in the ESPN office pool. My bracket, needless to say, is dead. I guess the sweet job wasn't enough -- he had to fill out an extraterrestrially good bracket, then breezily type up a story about it as his latest dispatch for Slate.com. But wait, there's more. He couldn't help but mention he filled this out in just a few minutes -- while on vacation in India! Just another day at the office.
So I ask you, Slate guy. Want to sleep with my wife while you're at it? Go ahead, ball her out. No? Because you're dating a leggy Italian pre-med you met back at Columbia? Well, why don't I just drink out of the fucking toilet bowl.
I think I should just throw in the towel here, and admit it -- every Internet writer is better than me on every conceivable level. Let's hand the Nobel over to the Instapundit guy, elect Ariana Huffington president (Boing Boing can be her running mate), rig the lottery for Wil Wheaton, and give Bill Simmons that six-movie screenwriting contract. I would say I was the Charlie Brown of blogging, but that would imply I was in the gang. Maybe all of these superior citizens can come up with an adequate punishment for me between sips of Mai Tai as they lounge on a beach in the south of France and recalibrate their appearance fee scales.
So nice going, guy who writes for Slate. Hey, I think I see an original copy of the Declaration of Independence sticking out of your copy machine. Jerk.
Technorati tags: Writing, Blogging, Slate, I'm a loser, Life sucks