Can’t anyone write a goddamn rant anymore?

I mean, goddammit! And don’t give me your harangue. If I wanted a harangue, I’d call out the harangue-meister at the corner grocery every time he shortchanges me. Yeah, for a harangue, he’d be my go-to guy. But I don’t want a harangue. I can’t even believe you’d think I’d settle for a harangue. What, like I’m so desperate for a good rant that I’m indiscriminate? Please.

No, I want a good, old-fashioned, change-your-underwear, fasten-your-seatbelts-it’s-going-to-be-a-bumpy-ride rant.

And, thanks, but a diatribe won’t do. Like, I’m so impressed by a diatribe. A diatribe is the sound Rush Limbaugh’s back flab makes when he suctions himself off the massage table. I didn’t ask for a diatribe, I don’t want a diatribe and if you insist on offering me a diatribe, I’m going to shove it so far up your ass it’ll be on waving-hello-from-the-driveway terms with your duodenum.

I want a rant. R-A-N-T. A pull-your-hair-out, tear-your-clothes-off, scream-at-your-friend-who-tries-to-calm-you-down-so-the-neighbors-don’t-call-the-cops-style rant. Bloody hell.

And don’t come back offering me a screed. A screed, for God’s sake?! Lookit, I’m going to give you a pass on that, because I can see the worried look in your eyes and I know you’re trying. But a screed?! What the hell do you think this is, a child’s birthday party? I mean, Jesus, anyone can write a screed. A screed is just the price of admission. You want a screed? Give me a cup of strong coffee, a cigarette and five minutes on the toilet and I’ll give you a screed. Keep your goddamn screeds. I hate all you screed-mongers and all of your screed-monger sycophants. You make me sick. Go choke on a screed.

I don’t know what the world is coming to, but it’s a sad state of affairs when a man can’t go on the Internet and find a good rant, or even a halfway mediocre one. Toothless old whores have more bite than what passes for a rant these days.

Goddammit, I guess I’m just going to have to do it myself.