An intern in our office just gave us this really elaborate compositional notebook full of handwritten stories and photocopied images she cut out and pasted—ideas she thinks we should rip off. It’s just this side of cute for the type of DIY obsession usually reserved for the homemade literary projects of serial killers. But anyway, we’re going to accept one of her pitches, a regular column called “Dickheadz." Here's how she explains it: "Dickheadz could be a monthly feature or multi-part series where Dickheadz get their comeuppance. Like an extended Don’t. I’m not a vengeful, hating person and I don’t like to indulge in shit-talking and I try to be a good person. But there are jerks in this world who just won’t be nice. To anyone. These people are Dickheadz." And now, the world premiere of Dickheadz...
You know what? Erik Jackson was a dick. Erik Jackson was in a history class I took in college and I was ALWAYS nice to him and he was always a dick back. Man, he was a dick to everybody. Because he thought he was better than everyone else. When he would get his papers back and they had gotten an A or whatever, he would clench his fist and hiss yessssss and then punch the air, so everyone would know that he had gotten an A. What a dick.
Erik Jackson had the voice of an asshole. He really like to say things like “you can say that again” and “tell me about it.” He though he was so funny and smart, and would say smarmy things to correct people, like, “uhh…actuallyyyyy, it’s more effective to behead someone with a sword than with a guillotine.” Oh yeah, because he thought he was like, the master about swords, because he kept a bunch of swords and daggers and whatever in his room and he would practice his sword moves outside all serious like, oooh, I’m so serious and really good at sword moves. Erik Jackson was a real show-off jerk. I mean, how is that even allowed, letting shitty people keep swords in their rooms?
Erik Jackson thought he was so cool. He thought he was so cool because he was gonna be a role at some Renaissance Fair. We asked him about it, and he got all smug and smirked and said, “Well, I am going to be a drunk, belligerent Scotsman who won’t quiet down.” As if that was the coolest, funniest thing ever. Like how ten year olds think it’s all cool to be crazy, so they act like idiots and say, “I’m crrraaazzzyyy,” because they have no idea that crazy is actually some homeless bum with shit in his pants and wearing a winter coat in the summer.
Look, Erik Jackson, if you’re gonna go to all the trouble of putting on a kilt and hanging a special magin tokens pouch from it and if you’re gonna hold your free hand in that creepy-ass pose like that, then you should probably wise up to a couple of things:
Do you really think Braveheart warriors wore 100% cotton sleeveless graphic tees? No, because sleeveless tees weren’t even cool yet. Do you really think Braveheart warriors wore glasses? No, because true Braveheart warriors would’ve been blind with true passion and rage. What’s the free hand for? Your falcon? If you had a falcon he would hate your guts and talk shit about you behind your back and spit in your food whenever he could. Don’t you think that Braveheart warriors would at least have the foresight not to have their portraits taken in front of huge wooden fences separating their parents suburban sub-plot in the outskirt of Dallas?
Geez. Get real, Erik Jackson.