Christ all fucking mighty, Henry, can you give it a rest already?
Yes, I know, we all understand you need to pay the rent, and the residuals from those Apple commercials and Nissan voice-overs don’t last forever.
But really, honestly, I say this with as much love as I can muster: no one cares.
The last time I saw you, with dear ol’ Mags, I had such bronchitis I couldn’t speak, which was your lucky day, because, really, if I’d intended to pay good money to sit around listening to some undersexed big-necked middle-aged white man talk about how women, once they get into a relationship, suck their partners’ souls dry and just want to go shop for curtains, I could listen to Fox News.
And that’s free.
I know, Henry, I understand this must be tough. I’ve followed you, Henry, was part of the audience, mosh pit, fan base for years. I played the Rollins Band on my radio show, listened to Black Flag, fantasized about bearing your love child.
But those days are gone, Henry, gone the way of the telegraph, trust in government, budget surplus and your virility.
So please, Henry, please understand: we who followed you, who understood you, believed in what was once your brilliance, cannot stand you.
And if I happen to see you wandering around my dear ol’ city of brotherly love next week, don’t worry, I won’t talk to you. You don’t like interviews, or conversation, you need to keep your concentration, keep focused on the task at hand. I know. I remember.
It must be so hardcore being you…