So I was in the canteen the other day looking for some extra Kleenex and razor blades — not for slicing people up but for perfectly acceptable hygienic reasons — and I spotted a copy of this shitty magazine Dunce Cap Quarterly. It was just me and Fishgut Frank in there, so I asked him what the fuck kind of dumbass fucking name was that for a magazine anyways, and Fishgut Frank was all, “Actually, Bill, I find the title rather intriguing. It suggests the purveyors wish to present themselves as possessing a certain measure of pseudo-intellectual condescension balanced against a heavy dose of self-deprecating hypocrisy. The very fact that you clearly lack the capacity to break through an instinctive reactive derision to the presentation of the magazine’s moniker indicates that they’ve succeeded in their aim.”
I don’t really shop with Fishgut Frank anymore.
