First a note to the general public, fuck off. Mind your own goddamn business you worthless cubicle jockeys. Sorry, my lawyers tell me to limit my profanity-laced tirades, but know this the greater state of New York — you are the scraggly pubic hairs to my scrotum. Each one of you.

This message is for my wife Silda, so the rest of you do yourself a favor and hang yourself by your mouse cords.

Silda, honey, it’s Daddy talking. Please come out of the bathroom. I’m sorry I said that you seem all too delighted to play the humiliated victim. It’s just when I ordered you to courageously appear by my side, I expected you to not have that dead-inside glaze covering your face — as if you had just witnessed our kids being horrifically slaughtered. I know you can’t help being a drama queen, it’s in your nature. Not your nature specifically, but the nature of women.

Associated Press

In a way, you should be glad I did this. I spared you from the physical humiliation that a man with such dominance issues and power lust like myself must enact on others. For you, it’s just the standard fare of psychological abuse, verbal sublimation — child’s play really. I have too much respect for you to do those things to your clavicle.

Besides when I asked if you wanted to try the Upside-down Fitzcaraldo and you replied that you found Werner Herzog to be tedious, I knew I had to take these debase fantasies elsewhere.

These Emperor VIP women are professionals in the truest sense of the word. I know you don’t want to hear it, but you should see the aplomb in which these women can handle a Milwaukee Surprise — the minimal outbursts of pain, how they can turn a gasp into a moan, my goodness. What were we talking about again?

Get the fuck out of the bathroom before I use one of these brats you spoiled as a battering ram. What’s the name of the one with the flat head?