Well, that was sloppy as fuck.
Not your best, buddy.
Did you just spend most of your time complaining about me possibly approaching the fourth wall? I’m sorry, you, Mike Best… complaining about someone hitting the fourth wall? You’ve busted through more walls than a crash test dummy, so don’t ram your head into this one, chief. Come on man, I’m not buying it. You’re whining about something you do on the regular, and it’s supposed to come off as your practiced nonchalance, patented and perfected like all of the other words. You were shaken by what I said. That’s okay. It’s okay to admit that. It’ll make you feel better if you do. You’ve been saying how bored you’ve been. I’m just trying to help a friend out.
You spent an entire paragraph on Disney references. On top of everything else, now you’re cribbing notes from Lindsay Troy. Tell me about my spinach puffs, Mike. I miss that bullshit like I miss my wife, which is to say, not at all. Fuck her if you want, buddy. Use her and anyone else from my life in your metaphors, because I don’t give a fuck about anyone. You know that, but you’re in that spot now where you’re throwing shit against the wall and hoping nobody notices.
I know I hit home. I also know that you’ll never ever admit it. And that’s the point, right? Why waste your time, Mike? You’re supremely selfish. There was a point in your life when decisions were made for you, and then you were informed of them after the fact. So eventually, you decided to take control, take care of yourself, and you made it work. It’s always suited you and served you well to say whatever you want, whenever you want, and you follow no rule. You exploit the stupid because they aren’t smart enough to understand what you’re doing. You baked cheat codes into your style, so you don’t really have to put a lot of thought into anything. You say I’m destined to lose this fight, but even you don’t believe that, not really. But sure, brave face.
Even with your friends, right? You hate to fucking lose, even when it’s deserved, and you make yourself feel better by telling everyone that you respect your boys too much to give them anything. It’s bullshit, of course. I respect that. I don’t hate it. I’m here for it. Tell sweet little lies. Or admit to selfishness, if you want. I don’t know. Let’s talk in circles some more. You can dig deeper into the Disney catalog, and we can find brand new walls to break.
You know what’s really fucking wild? That you’re just as fucking insecure now as you ever were, only now, you’ve got your phony confidence to keep you warm at night. So now you’re MJ Flair, and you’ve found your Kevin. I already saw your story arc on “How I Met Your Mother.”
So before your opus ends in a disappointing meeting at a train station and a talk with your future kids on an old couch, just come up with something else. Don’t get mad at me for pointing out the obvious. You can explain it away as some sort of fourth wall dig, but it’s predictable as fuck. You have your semi-annual “Mike falls to the depths of despair and then overcomes” stories and Katy is this year’s model. You don’t deserve happily ever after. You should ride off into the sunset and then be hit by a train, because that’s what you deserve.
It’s an easy target, and no one’s gonna spoon you from behind and give you a feel-better handy because your grand idea got fucked. I enjoy your lazy approach for this match of doing a rundown of everything I say without bringing anything new to the table, but I don’t buy your indignation. You’re still sitting there looking like you think we don’t need to call any more witnesses, so sure you’ve got everything wrapped up. You quote and respond to me like this is the late 90s and we haven’t figured out how to make shit stand on our own, smirking like you’ve won so much lately that you think it’ll never end.
I know you’ll be back, itching to take another shot, because you simply cannot fathom someone beating the unbeatable. I’ll show you how this works. Victory settles a lot of arguments in men’s heads.