What's The Fucking Point?

From 1941-1945, the United States fought in World War II. If you watched Band of Brothers, you may recall the testimonial of a veteran who recounted that young men from his hometown actually killed themselves after failing their physicals, as it prevented them from joining the fight for their country. Many teenagers forged their birth certificates or used false documents to enroll before their 18th birthday. The only men who were left behind were either medically unfit for war, illiterate, conscientiously objecting due to religious reasons, or exempt because they were providing some service that helped the efforts overseas.

I’m in the best physical shape of my life. I read and write like a grandfather who doesn’t move well anymore. I’m only religious when I’m gambling. And I’m not involved in any activity that directly helps our people in Atlanta, like hunting deer, salting the meat, and sending it down in strips to the hungry boys and girls at the vodka house. Yet somehow, I’m here in the New York office, away from the fight, seeing how many times I can jerk off before I get a fever.

I’m trying to write blogs. I’m trying to say interesting things on radio. I’m trying to offer something unrelated to the Patriots and the Superbowl for the six people who follow Barstool with an indifference to sport. But golly, it sure is hard.

Let me paint a picture: on Monday, I wrote a blog about Buzzfeed, shot a video, composed a few tweets, and had a positive conversation with a woman. Normally, that’s a banner day. Except later that night, Dave and PFT crashed media day and walked away with a library of hysterical clips on their phones. These were then posted to our 6.4 million-follower Instagram account. The NY Post covered the story. My parents called and asked why I wasn’t there. I hung up, plugged in my toaster, and waited for the bath to fill.

The next day, I spent three hours writing what I thought was a fun story about the time I was arrested for smoking weed. Nobody gave a fuck. Nobody. It was like my blog fell through some wormhole in the internet. It’s out there somewhere but we won’t see it until we’re 95-years-old and about to die when it waltzes in like Matthew McConaughey, the same age it was the day I posted it.

Kate has become the face of standup comedy. Tommy Smokes is on fire. Pup Punk is making beautiful noise. Erika is sending proud emails. Even Marty Mush, who barely speaks English, is an all-star this week. It’s the greatest time of the year to be a Barstool employee, for about 95% of the company.

Am I jealous? Are you fucking kidding? Yes. I hope every flight out of Atlanta on Monday is grounded due to weather. I hope Roger Goodell gets a raise. I want the Patriots to win because I’m a company man, but I hope the Lombardi trophy is smeared in human feces when they hand it to Tom.

Did you guys hear about how cold it is? Haha let’s talk more about that. Maybe I’ll put together a funny, new opinion on the fucking weather. That should siphon some eyeballs away from the orgy of content happening in Atlanta.

“Hold down the fort,” they said. Well guys, I can tell you that the fort isn’t going anywhere. It’s not a tent at a windy wedding. It’s just an empty, soulless, silent, unchanging cave of boredom. For now, I’ll look forward to my one-a-day chance at Trent’s ball-in-cup game. It’s the highlight of my day.