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My Entire Extended Family Thinks I'm a National Embarrassment

Last week, my precious pride took a major blow, and to be quite honest, I still haven’t recovered from it. In fact, I’m a shell of my early January self. A shell of myself that’s more fragile and weakened than the exterior of a newborn crustacean. But before I get into this, I think it’s important to note that I take my career very seriously. My work, which I strive to make as thought-provoking, captivating, and research-based as possible, is something that I prioritize over my health, my overall well-being, and my relationships with others.

My boundless devotion to the art of journalism has put me in a position where I can no longer eat, because there’s research to be researched; no longer sleep, because there’s analysis to be analyzed; and no longer have sex socialize with others, because there’s writing to be written.

So last Thursday, upon completing what I had assumed was my most detail-oriented masterpiece to date, I was overwhelmed with satisfaction and relief. After spending over 36 straight sleepless, foodless, fuckless hours working diligently on my self-perceived magnum opus, I mustered up just enough energy and strength to tear open the wrapper of a Nature Valley granola bar and set off for the train station.

With my AirPods blasting “Feeling Good” by Nina Simone (Bassnectar Remix) and fighting to stay nested in my cauliflowered ears, I walked with a pep in my step all the way to Penn Station. After several hours of compiling the most hard-hitting facts and logic into dozens of words and iPhone screenshots, I was finally about to convince the world that America should donate seven of its largest and most resource-rich states to Canada with a completely legitimate and credible petition.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was nodding off on the train, my think piece was posted by the Barstool Sports Facebook account—a reputable page with 2.6 million (4.5 Wyomings) avid readers—and just like that, I was experiencing my first big-break as a professional journalist. This was particularly exhilarating to me, because Facebook is the premier—and only—source of news and online entertainment in my home state of West Virginia. Which meant that I was about to have relatives of all ages and races seeing one of my articles for the first time.

(Taking a break right here to clarify that this is not me being sarcastic—several of my family members didn’t even know I was a blogger professional journalist for Barstool until they saw this on their Facebook.)

So after waking up to texts in my family’s group chat about my Facebook appearance, I eagerly opened the app to see what my fans were saying about it.

The comments, to my haunting surprise, were not good. In fact, they were bad. Overwhelmingly and unanimously bad. It was a blood bath.

And the worst part was that it wasn’t just idiots disparaging my work. These insults to my journalism were coming from dignified professionals like crypto geniuses with large fanbases.

Initially, I was confused by this comment and wasn’t sure if its intent was meant to be negative or positive. After doing some research though, I came to find out that “daddy girls” is a colloquial way that obsessive fans of the popular podcast Call Her Daddy refer to the show’s two female co-hosts. I also discovered that I share an employer and an office with these young women, which would explain the context of Zane’s barb.

In a desperate attempt to repair my tarnished reputation with my family, I sent out a mass text to them explaining that I do not actually get ferocious erections around my coworkers. But it was already too late. Regardless of my workplace libido, they already saw the first 500 comments and realized that I’m not only an embarrassment to my company but an embarrassment to the country.