We held back when you stole our article ideas, despite our frustration. We held back when you imprudently ceded their helm to us, despite the power we wielded. We even held back when the Tabloid Asepsis Quorum revealed that you frequently rubbed your faces in manure before interviewing pundits, despite how disgusted we were. And we can’t take it anymore.
It’s not that your uncordial behavior crossed a line. God no. Every line had been crossed long before this. (Besides, we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve made us pick up the check.) It’s that your conduct is consistently abhorrent, your demeanor perpetually sophomoric, and your odor invariably fecal. In fact, your excrement stained faces are so oppressively putrid that we can hardly find it within ourselves to stand near you, let alone sit at the same dinner table.
And so, despite our position, we must sever our ties with you. Look, it’s true that our dating pool isn’t exactly favorable, and that The Hatchet isn’t, well, quite the paper of record it believes itself to be, but this isn’t about comparisons. This is about you. And us. And the fifteen pounds of shit gradually sliding down your necks.
To be clear, Rivey: we’re not here to judge. If plagiarism is your hobby, we’ve got all the original material you need. If executive coups gets you off, we’re always willing to send our worst reporter over to run your show. And if you want to dive headfirst into a human-sized vat of assorted droppings, feces, and defecations as ritualistic preparation for your journalistic endeavors, we’ll be happy to lend the litter box. But us and you? The GW Ax and The Rival, a press enterprise power couple? We can’t keep it up anymore. And we’re not apologizing.
Rivey, we want you to be happy. But we also want us to be happy. And that simply can’t happen when you’re around. Well. At least not without a new attitude, and exponentially more air freshener. So this “honeymoon” phase has to come to an end. The cracks are showing, and it’s not long before this ship fully submerges. We’re hopping off while we still can. And we’d wish you good luck, but we’d rather watch you drown. So. Instead. We hope the future delivers what you have coming. And we hope that your rancid, grimy, excretion-coated selves never see even a hint of the mass media success that we’ve experienced.
Sincerely,
The GW Ax
