Well, well, well....

Eight years to be exact.

For those of you that don’t know who I am, allow me to introduce myself: I am Wayne Chinsang. From time to time, I’ve been known to go by Insane Wayne Chinsang. For many years, I ran a little magazine/website/cult named Tastes Like Chicken. There will be more announcements about Tastes Like Chicken in the near future, but for now I’d like to talk about some more pressing issues.

Earlier today, I received this email from my old boss. Some of you may know him as Shady:

Fuck yeah, I'm down. Especially if I can get on that sweet payroll again.

You see, during the run of Tastes Like Chicken (from 1998 to around, say, 2007 or so), Shady quietly ran shit anonymously behind the scenes while I was the angry (and much prettier) face of the magazine. That isn’t to say Shady and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on most things, but I was always much better at voicing my… let’s just call it dissatisfaction with the world than he was.

And, I mean, let’s be honest here: Shady is a shell of the man he was during his TLC days. He’s now the father of a little girl. He has a tattoo of the Muppets on his arm. And that’s not even to mention his male-pattern baldness, or the fact that he just turned 40.

None of those things describe me. I am the father of exactly zero children (that I know of), the only tattoo I’d ever get would be of the phrase “TATTOOS ARE STUPID,” and I have a luxuriously full head of hair. Oh, and I don’t age. No, seriously, I never age. That’s what happens when you’ve spent the last eight years of your life sleeping in the abandoned ruins of a castle in Romania.

But I digress….

See, the thing is, I was able to take an eight-year break from reality because, as far as I could tell, humanity was mostly back on track. Sure, there was awful shit going on in the world, but we’re never going to be able to fully eradicate all misery. Not as long as contemporary country music exists, at least. Still, humanity was progressing nicely. We all seemed to be getting along together fairly well, or, at the very least, we respectfully accepted our little differences as simply that: little differences.

But then today I get that email from Shady, and after a quick Dogpile search (I told you, I’ve been gone awhile) I find out that 60 million Americans willingly voted a pussy-grabbing fascist into the White House. I’d like to say I’m surprised by this outcome (as Shady obviously was, as illustrated by his sophomoric and minimalist reaction of teen angst), but I’m really not. I mean, we’re talking about a country that elected that Texas hilljack Dubya (AKA George W. Bush for the newbies) into the White House twice. Twice!

All of this is to say that Trump’s ascension to the top of the political shit pile that is the U.S. government is about as surprising as Kanye West’s mental breakdown. (I spent a lot of time on Dogpile today.)

And so, Shady has decided to pass the anger baton on to me for the next four years, and rightly so. Because, when compared to me, Shady just doesn’t possess the appropriate amount of anger needed to adequately tackle this fucked-up turn of events. I, on the other hand, most certainly do.

Need proof? I once started an online petition to God to give Dubya cancer. For real! I really did that! And I don’t regret one goddamn second of it. Know why? Because Bush and his entire crew are still nothing more than petty war criminals. And I’ve said it before, and I will say it again: I will throw a fucking party each and every time a member of that administration leaves this mortal coil. Red Dog and Jack’s Frozen Pizzas on me, y’all!

But until that happens, Donald Trump, I’m turning my attention to you.

So while Shady concentrates on his silly “this is what I’m reading” or “here’s a misspelled sign” or “read this dumb quote one of my friends just said” type of posts here on The Blarg, I’m now in charge of managing the anger around here.

Because let’s be honest, folks… suddenly, there’s a fuckload to be angry about.

Stay tuned, dear reader. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.

Word,

-Wayne

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