If you compare yourself to Alfred Hitchcock one more time, I will fly to Philadelphia and kick you square in the ass.

SHOCKING TWIST ALERT!

By “ass,” I meant “balls.” 

See, M. Night? Surprises aren’t always as awesome as you seem to think they are. For instance, you can’t craft 110 minutes of complete bullshit, tack on a 5 minute twist ending, and consider the finished product a nugget of cinematic genius.

God, you are a hack.

Every one of your films is an exercise in incompetence. And besides being professionally inept, you seem like a total douche of a person, too. You fail on every level.

But, I will give you credit for something: The Happening is easily the most [unintentionally] hilarious movie I’ve seen in years. Bravo. The only reason the audience I saw it with didn’t drop trou’ and start flinging their feces at the screen is because their ironic laughter was practically incapacitating. Shame, really.

Your career, much like Sixth Sense star Haley Joel Osment, started off with a hint of promise and has slowly devolved into a hideous monster unfit for public consumption. Please, just give up on your dreams of filmmaking. I beg of you. 

Ironically, then, I find myself in a relationship with an alpha computer geek. Picture Boo Radley with a MacBook permanently attached to his lap. Even though we’re shacking up together, I cannot remember the last time the two of us had a face-to-face conversation. If I want to get his attention, it’s often more efficacious to IM him than to call out across the living room and hope he looks up from the hypnotic glow of his Apple Mistress. 

I’ve tried confronting him about his computer addiction, but he’s usually too busy Twittering or reading his RSS feed to listen. I intimated on several occasions that, if Apple engineers ever figure out a way to install a vagina port on their laptops, he will never again have use for a carbon-based girlfriend. He didn’t deny that this would be the case.

Now, I’ve dated coke-heads, potheads, and alcoholics before, but none of those addictions seemed as severe and devastating as this boy’s computer addiction. I mean, even through their substance-induced hazes, my ex-boyfriends still managed to communicate with me in person. Sure, their words were slurred and incoherent, but at least they made an effort.

I am officially a computer widow. My boyfriend is only alive in a technical and physiological sense. Emotionally and mentally, he died long ago. Probably around the time Apple released Mac OS X v10.2. Since then, he has become a husk of a person, just a human-shaped vessel to house Apple minutiae.

And just in case he ever finds this blog, reads it, and demands answers, I suppose I should explain myself:

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You’d be bitter too if you looked like Bruce Vilanch with smaller tits. Yeah, let that mental image fester for a moment. A female Bruce Vilanch. A bulbous, wattle-centric androgyne with an all-too-vast collection of novelty t-shirts. If you’re not shuddering at the thought, you’re dead inside. Or maybe it’s been too long since you’ve Google image searched Mr. Vilanch.

Regardless, the world is a cruel and lonely place for young women that resemble popular patter-writer Bruce Vilanch. Gentlemen callers are few and far between. Children instinctively know to tremble. Blogs are written with undue gravitas and use of passive voice. In short, it’s a nightmare.

But, perhaps the most agonizing aspect of looking like Bruce Vilanch: Whoopi Goldberg’s never-ending barrage of phone calls asking you to be Center Square.

The horror, the horror.

Now, I can’t say with certainty whether it was the Cheese Lover’s Pizza, breadsticks, salad bar, or waitress’s unfriendly demeanor that did the deed, but it was definitely the Hut that allegedly gave me the shits. I should have known better than to eat there once I saw a pile of half eaten chicken wings on the floor beneath my booth. Hindsight is 20/20, as the old saw goes. Unfortunately for my hind, however, this revelation is too little, too late. 

To 99% of bloggers, I would like to say:

I do not care what you think. I do not care what you had for lunch or what you just downloaded on your iPod. Your political opinions mean nothing to me. Your taste in music and movies is appalling. The latest photo you uploaded of yourself drunk at a club is embarrassing. I don’t give two shits about why your girlfriend broke up with you.

You are not a talented writer. Whatever shithole public university granted you an English degree ought to lose its accreditation. You are not witty, insightful, or clever. You won’t make any money doing this, nor will you achieve any sort of fame. If you use one more emoticon, I will shrink myself down, crawl through your DSL cable, and punch you in the face. Kindly, shut the hell up.

Yet, here I sit blogging. Fortunately for me, I’m already filled with self-loathing, so this blatant act of hypocrisy won’t weigh very heavily on my conscience.

I’ve had the disposition of an elderly malcontent since childhood. I distinctly remember chastising my classmates for roughhousing in 1st grade. I preferred Andy Rooney to cartoons, Paul Harvey to NKOTB. For a brief spell as a teenager, my wardrobe consisted exclusively of corduroy blazers and polyester slacks. On special occasions, I would accessorize with a paisley pocket square. I own a cane, and it takes every ounce of my youthful energy not to hobble down the street with it, intermittently shaking it in the air at random children. In short, I’m an embittered bastard with a penchant for hard candies.

While it’s easy to pinpoint the reason for Wilford’s churlishness (the man was forced to work with hacky Steve Guttenberg in not one, but TWO, feature films), my own remains slightly more enigmatic. However, for the purposes of blogging closure, I’ll just go ahead and lay blame at the talentless feet of the Gutt, as well. Early exposure to family-friendly schlock like Three Men and a Baby and Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol broke my spirit and taught me about the futility of hope.

Damn you, Steve Guttenberg. Damn you straight to Hell.