You're Gonna Frey [Apr 29, 2003]
There's been much talk lately in circles where talk occurs about a young writer named James Frey. I'm tired of him already. Every five weeks or so a punk comes along and tries to cock-block my mantle when he knows full well that I am the greatest writer of my generation or any generation and that no one better captures the anguish of contemporary American male identity better than I do.
You wanna fuck with my shit, Frey guy? I don't think so. Because I really don't give a flying anal gland about Danny Eggleston or Jonathan Safran Fuckface or David Foster Walrus. Not only do I not hang out with them, but I don't hang out at all. With anyone. No living being is worth my company except for my dogs, and only then because I like to fuck them. Oh, yes, I love fucking my dogs, and then I go to a boxing gym because I love beating up black people and then I fuck my dogs some more. So if you want to fight me, James Frey, then bring it on, because my fists are cast-iron and my screen saver reads "BRING IT YOU BEAUTIFUL MOTHERFUCKER BRING IT!" and my tattoo reads "SUCK MY COCK YOU WHORE." But it's not on my left arm. It's on my cock. Suck my cock tattoo that says suck my cock, James Frey, you whore.
You eat with your hands and call yourself a savage, Frey? Well, I eat with my face. I just plunge my face into a bowl and eat like a beast. Raw meat. Raw vegetables. Raw unprocessed grain. I brew my own beer and I piss in it and I drink it and it tastes good. And you think you're tough because you listen to N.W.A.? I was IN N.W.A, motherfucker. Now I listen to Dead Prez, and they're not nearly hard-core enough for me so I listen to Motorhead, but what the fuck? You pussy.
You can't write, Frey. I can write. Check this out. I wrote this five years ago in my book "Addict: A Memoir Of Addiction.":
"I open the cockpit door and I walk out. The Pilot wipes his nose because he's been snorting coke off my Balls. The flight attendant asks me if everything is OK and I fuck her. Outside, it is Night. The wing is straddled by blinking lights. From where I sit I can smell the lights and I want to break them with my fists. So I bust through the emergency exit door and leap onto the wing. Thank god we're still on the ground. I punch out the lights with my forehead and tear at the steel with my claws. I wish my parents had never made me go to College. I wish that my mind were an endless Chasm and that I could crawl inside. My Balls are blue because I fuck so much. The last time I committed suicide, I hung myself from the neck until I couldn't breathe. My brain is black my balls are black my heart is made of stone and I love nothing but the rush of hop into my vein and if I could get away with it, I would kill You now as you sit there in your comfortable chair reading this and I kill myself and anyone who challenges my position as the greatest fucking writer of my generation. The flight attendant asks me if I want some Cheese and Crackers, but I cannot have any, because I have swallowed my tongue. It tasted fucking good. I love the way my tongue tastes when I swallow it, and I don't care if I ever eat again."
You think your appetites are bigger than mine, James Frey? You think you're a bigger rock star and a better writer than I am? Well, motherfucker, I challenge you. I want a drink. I want fifty drinks. I want a tub of acid as deep as the moon. I want a tube of glue that tastes like a dumptruck of peyote. I want a boyfriend. I want a boyfriend. I want all that stupid old shit like letters and sodas, letters and sodas. I want to be the guy with the most cake.
I want your ass, Frey. Served to me piping hot on a platter. Then I will bite it. And then I will send it back. Not because it's tough. But because it's not tough enough.
See You In Hell, Bitch.