 My editorial is superior to Jake’s Fifth-year English seniors should know their place by Todd Nienkerk, Editor-in-Chief
Mr. Wilburn, the titular Managing Editor of this fine publication, has basked in the dim glow of his staggeringly unintelligent readership for far too long. He and his editorial have forever stained the pages and reputation of the Travesty. Someone should notify our English department that an utter fraud—a cross-dressing fraud, I might add—has stalked their halls for nearly nine semesters! I would do it myself, but I am disgusted to the point of violent retching by the mere possibility of encountering his foul, reptilian stench to allow myself anywhere near Parlin Hall.
Mr. Wilburn’s bourgeois approach to humor smacks of fast food and hookers—cheap, dirty, and found on every street corner. (For example, had Jake written that last analogy, it would have included a cheap crack about gonorrhea, as he no doubt has extensive experience in the realm of social diseases and their unattractive consequences.) His editorial is the literary equivalent of a July fourth fireworks display—predictable, marred by banal banter, and ultimately an enormous disappointment. My editorial, as you have no doubt observed, shines like Polaris above his meandering manuscript.
For those of you still not convinced, I’ve provided a few elucidatory observations:
Jake’s syntax and structure reads like an eighth-grader’s Remedial Reading homework. “Todd’s editorial sucks big-time. My editorial is where it’s at.” Such eloquent wordplay, Mr. Wilburn! You will no doubt receive a standing ovation at next month’s English as a Second Language Convention and Pizza Party. His use of punctuation is abysmal, and his vocabulary extends no further than Penthouse Letters. Furthermore, he couldn’t identify an appositive to save his life! Here’s a hint: “Hey, who brought a shaved ape to my party? Wait, that’s no ape—that’s Jake Wilburn, the Managing Editor.”
Jake’s personal hygiene is abhorrent. He frequently substitutes a shower with a soapy paper towel underarm-scrubbing. His oh-so-trendy thrift store attire reeks of cheap booze and sex, and seeing as how he can afford neither of these, I can only assume that he pulls his clothes off of sleeping vagrants and the incapacitated tricks he turns to fuel his inhalant addiction.
Frequently, after a much-exaggerated make-out session, Jake will call his ex-girlfriends to gloat. If the recipient of his fumbling sexual attempts actually follows up with a second date, she usually winds up footing the bill as he sneaks off to the bathroom to flush her birth control and participate in bathroom-wall discourse.
He plays volleyball.
As you can no doubt tell, you shouldn’t be fooled by my subordinate’s boyish good looks and intoxicating charm. For those who know Jake as I do, those deceptive, blue eyes do not allude to mystery, depth, and profound internal beauty. Instead, they reflect cookie-cutter mediocrity, a proclivity towards self-abuse, and a complete misunderstanding of the mechanics of the modern toilet.
So, should you choose to indulge Jake’s attempt at literary expression and actually read his editorial, you will find that it’s nothing more than fabricated tales of petty theft culminating in a penis joke. Clearly, my editorial is superior. |
