Breaking Brad

Breaking Brad

By Liam Bouquet

Photo by Gabrielle Fellows/ The Jambar.

Photo by Gabrielle Fellows/ The Jambar.

In some people’s misguided attempts to elucidate my personality, I have been called a cynic. The worst among them may transform that sentiment into a full sentence: I am a woefully misguided, ostentatious, misanthrope too hopped up on his sense of self-importance to communicate properly with humans. But I like to call myself by my true descriptor — a genius.

Now that I have established myself as the erudite man that I am, I can get to the main point: I am leaving The Jambar. I assure you, my brief tenure as editor in chief has evolved me not only as a journalist, but also as a pompous ass. I have been wrapped in a cocoon made of the trash paper we print on and exploded forth as a beautiful journalism butterfly. And who do I have to thank for this wonderful transformation?

Absolutely no one.

You see, The Jambar did nothing to improve my life in any way, shape or form. Sure I may not be the writer I am today, or know a wonderful group of people I will fortunately have to part ways with soon, without it; potentially I would be a friendless hobo hunting for large sums of cocaine on the streets of Bangladesh. But does any of that really matter? Probably not.

Anyway, here are some sarcastic compliments:

Frank George: You are a bully and a scoundrel who relentlessly tortured me during my high school years, but I have learned to forgive you. I have also allowed you to become my best friend and only confidant. There will be a long-winded poem waiting for you on your desk on April 7, 2080, two years after my tragic death to your villainous grandchild. You must clap your hands twice and click your heels in time with Toto’s hit “Africa,” before the hydraulic-locked safe reveals the contents. Said contents will make up for all the things I couldn’t say because I am an emotionally-stunted sea cucumber. I love you as much as a person like me can love someone. Also, seriously f–k Brad.

Amanda: I hate you more than you know possible. You are a cruel little gremlin who has well deserved the moniker of “Tiny Satan.” From this hate, however, has blossomed a mutated and mutually harmful version of surprisingly close friendship. You will one day make a fantastic crowned princess of hell, and I will enjoy watching your bloody ascension to the throne from a safe distance.

Mary Beth: You may be the only person in the world who I would count as a superior human specimen than myself, which I think makes you basically God — take that as you will.

Graig: You are the only person I have ever actually liked in my entire life. I willingly await for the day we can fuse together as some horrible assault to science, God and the very concept of love, and travel together as friends. You have just the right level of nihilism to make an astounding journalist and horrid person.

Gabby, Billy and Justin: Since I am both running out of space and you three have become a notable trio, I have clumped you together. I hope every bad thing possible happens to the three of you, but I hope you always stay together through it. Billy, I wish you were a woman so I could date you. Gabby, I hope a horde of seagulls abduct you on your next vacation. Justin, when you die, I will personally carve into your tombstone, “He knew a lot about movies and nothing about life.”

Jordan and all assorted copy editors who don’t deserve to be named: In a perfect world, we would burn your computers and use your bones for weapons, but we unfortunately need you because we are terrible at our jobs. So, if we must be saddled with this burden, I am glad that it was you people.

Alyssa: I truly believe that computer science is black magic, and when the computers rise up it will be them who will speak your language to control you like puppets. I hope you are happy because it will be your fault and your fault alone. No backhanded compliment for you.

Stacy: I appreciate your music taste. Also, good job getting through this year without much animus toward Graig — he is terrible.

Lauren: Remember that one time we talked about the history of the Irish language in a BBQ place? I felt God’s pleasure.

Anthony: You were our ads manager and liked baseball an excessive amount— nothing you said ever made any sense to me.

Josh, Gwen, Dan, Cassy and Lexi: It may seem that I put you here as a single group because I am out of room, and you are absolutely right. Go Penguins!

When I inevitably move to Ireland to start my sheep farm, I promise to name my least favorite sheep after you all — you bunch of bastards.

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