This one comes from the "comedy is tragedy plus time" school of thought, in that once you've taken the time to think about how tragic this suggestion is, you'll be able to do nothing but laugh at the cruel vagaries of the universe.
How about "I thought he was the one when I spotted him masturbating in my garden, and then I was sure when I picked him out of the police lineup?"
Alright, that's kind of cute. I'm not heartless.
Wait, what are you plotting? Why do you keep going back to crime jokes? Are the authorities onto your sexual assaults?
The annoying, hideous elf monster who dies horribly? That's surprisingly self-reflective, Wingman Magazine. Especially for a site that thinks it's 2008.
It looks like all their base are belong to terrible analogies:
Hey Wingman Magazine, here's an analogy for you. Reading your website is like being in a car crash. There's a lot of appalling sights that will haunt you, and you're left wondering how you'll ever move on. But you take solace in the fact that it wasn't your fault that some drunk idiot ruined your life.
They Didn't Fucking Pay Me
Adam Gault/Photodisc/Getty Images
I replied to their email with a request for clarification, because I wanted to be absolutely clear that I could write about anything I wanted and still get paid.
I waited 15 days and didn't get a response. It's rude and unprofessional to approach someone with a business deal and then go silent, but I forged ahead under the assumption they had all spilled Four Loko on their computers.
After several days without feedback, I was worried that I wasn't going to get my hard-earned money. But I tried again.
Three days later, I finally got a response. Because all the best websites take nearly a month to respond to emails regarding a business deal that they themselves proposed. Here's their passive-aggressive reply:
So we can add irony to the list of things Wingman Magazine doesn't understand. See, it would be ironic if I was writing articles about how to fuck bitches from the club with my goat-weed-enhanced manhood. It would be ironic if I went around claiming to have been published in The New Yorker when I haven't. And it would be ironic if I offered to pay people in exchange for services, then reneged when the requested service was fulfilled. But I don't do any of that, so it's not ironic. It's another term called "Me pointing out that you guys are a bunch of stupid assholes."
You promised me 100 dollars for an article that contained a link to your website, Wingman Magazine, and I delivered. In fact, I went above and beyond. You asked for a single measly link, and I've included 24. I'd say that's earned me a bonus, not a "Have a great day without the money we promised you!" So how about it? Do you think that for once in the history of your ignorant, misogynistic cancer of a website that you can be honest? If so, you know how to reach me.
You can read more from Mark at his website and the New Yorker.
Wingman Magazine might seem sketch but they're nothing compared to the NFL that smuggled a football team like a shipment of drugs in The 5 Shadiest Crimes Ever Pulled Off By Famous Corporations. And don't miss how record labels reduce sound quality to trick listeners in 5 Things Record Labels Don't Want You To Know They Do.
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