However, this is one of those rare times when everyone involved seems to have something approaching a happy ending. Unless she's really unlucky, the poor customer is unlikely to ever face a baby sphincter again while she eats. The internet got to empty its bile pouches. Hell, even Imagine Vegan Cafe seems to have survived the barrage: Their social media accounts are open again, and they've even found a sense of humor about the situation, as they're now selling "I Survived #Buttholegate" T-shirts. To directly quote Rocky Balboa, it ain't about how many buttholes you take; it's about how many buttholes you can get back up from.
The HuffPo Writer Who Failed To Love Chicago
Look, I don't usually want to encourage anyone to read other people's stuff before they finish mine, because as an internet writer, I am a vain and fragile creature who thrives on fleeting attention. However, in this case, I must admit that you can only really get a sense of what kind of a person Eric Barry, aka this Huffington Post writer, is if you read his work first.
Seeing as I don't personally know the guy, I -- like you -- can only attest to what that particular article makes him seem like, so let's do that. Behind that link, you'll find an absurdly smug viral essay about living in Chicago, a town that never embraced the writer no matter how he tried. He guilts the city about the various presumably bike-related accidents in which he could have died. (Quick aside from someone who rides a bike himself: If you have three brutal accidents in as many years, it just might be possible that you are the one driving like a dipshit.) He marvels at the price of beer, and at the way even Lagunitas, one of the "quirkier" beers, had found its way in the city. He states that Chicago is a pretty vanilla, family oriented city. He expresses shock at the way the women he attempted to chat up at bars were quick to tell him that they were taken, and at the way they mysteriously become agitated when his very next line was telling them he, quote, "doesn't want to fuck ANY OF THEM." Of course he would have, but "that wasn't the point." He says positive things too, but even they have this weird negging vibe straight out of a pick-up artist's manual. Ultimately, the whole article seems to exist only to announce that the guy eventually moved to New York, baby.
But again, this is just one article. I don't know this man. It's not for me to discuss the possible shortcomings that might have contributed to the way Chicago didn't work out for him. Fortunately, I don't have to, because here's A.V. Club writer Katie Rife, who actually knew Eric Barry during his time in Chicago. Rife is happy to point out a few discrepancies in Barry's sordid tale ... or in the native language of Comeuppance: "Exposed the living shit out of him." For one, his experiences of rejection may have had something to do with the way he kept bringing up that he was "sex-positive" (which apparently means that if you didn't want to have sex with him, you were a closed-minded prude). His other favorite conversation piece was his own dick, and in particular, how tiny it is. What? How was everyone not just flocking around the guy? Those are totally things that will turn every party into a cornucopia of fruitful conversation, and in no way could ever result in five seconds of awkward silence and a quick "sorry, I have a boyfriend" nine times out of ten.
Rife also points out that there was always this weird undercurrent of "But what about me?" in Barry's activities, which didn't sit well in Chicago's no-nonsense environment. It doesn't help that Barry apparently tends to blurt out his impressions as facts. What he sees as the "family oriented, wholesome" Chicago actually has a pretty active kink scene. That "quirky" Lagunitas that had magically found their way to Chi-town? There's a brewery right in the city. All of this remains a mystery of Detective Barry.
So yeah. Again, it's not my place to insinuate that this just might be a man who lives in a bubble of his own excellence and elevated self-importance, and then acts like a whiny martyr when other people don't recognize his genius. That's an impression you'll have to form on your own, if you so desire. Still, I'll be pretty damn surprised if, three years down the line, he doesn't write a "Goodbye, New York" article which lambastes the latest city that never worshiped him as their master. After all, he already roasted San Francisco when he moved from there to Chicago a few years ago. We can only hope that 50 years from now, he's ridiculing the fucking moon for not showing up to his one-man show Eric Barry And Eric Barry's Sobbing Wiener.
Pauli Poisuo is a Cracked columnist and freelance editor. Here he is on Facebook and Twitter.
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