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What a buffoon.

I encourage each of you to do what I just did and report him.

STEP ONE:

Seriously...

STEP TWO:

...spot...

STEP THREE:

...on.

It’s both accurate and funny!

Word,

-Wayne

I know some of you are of the mindset that we must remain vigilant and keep an eye on him at all times—keep your friends close, your enemies closer and all that—and while that is partly true, keeping tabs on him is only half the battle. The other half is learning when to completely ignore him.

Today—one of the darkest days in American history—will undoubtedly be the biggest, most important day of his pathetic little life. Do not add to his already (unjustly) inflated ego by tuning in. Don’t add another viewer—another set of eyeballs—to the train wreck as it unfolds on live television.

The only good that could possibly come out of today is that some hero throws an unripened tomato at his dick. And believe me, if that actually does happen it will be all over the internet in half a second.

So don’t slow your car down. Don’t roll your window down for a better view. Don’t gawk. Just keep on driving.

Because the key to fighting this putz will be to watch him like a hawk when he wants to stay hidden, and completely ignore him when he’s looking for the attention he so desperately craves. It will take time to master, for sure, but unfortunately we have four years to figure it out.

An easy way to gauge whether or not you should be paying attention to him is this: If he’s smiling that smug grin, waving with his tiny hands, and quoting his stupid fucking reality show, odds are he’s counting on you to tune in.

Don’t give him the pleasure.

More soon, so stay tuned. We’re just getting started.

Word,

-Wayne

Obnoxiousocks!

…but, for obvious reasons, I had yet to wear them.

That is, until today… after I fixed them.

Still obnoxious... but at least more accurate!

I say fuck Godwin.

Word,

-Wayne

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

Old Poop!