There are times in your life when you reach a point where there is only love. Love and respect. And all the hate and anger are gone and you realize that your true purpose is to spread that love and respect to everyone and everything in the universe and beyond. That’s how I feel as I leave the Intergalactic Business Report and sadly move on to other things.
Yeah. Disregard that first paragraph. I didn’t even write it. The editors at IBR did and I guess that’s what they consider editorial “direction” at this horrible, horrible place. They actually offered to write my entire last column for me. One of them said he’d do it so that people really understood what I was really thinking. I was like, “Are you fucking insane? How would you know what I’m thinking better than me?” And he was like, “Can I borrow five dollars?” And then when I got out my wallet he acted like he had actually asked me for ten, which he always fucking does, and this time I didn’t even argue with him. I gave it up and he left.
If you haven’t read my column before, I’ll explain some things quickly. My dad bought me this writing “opportunity” at the Intergalactic Business Report as a graduation present from college. It’s been a nightmare ever since. Any writing ability I had has been seriously set back by this experience and I feel that after I leave I will need to relearn to think, interact with normal human beings, and I’ll probably have to attend AA meetings.
One of the worst things they do to you here is the “alternative reality” trick. It’s stupid at first, but then it starts making you actually crazy. Whenever one of the editors does something wrong, ruins someone’s life, or borrows money, he usually claims that it wasn’t him and that it was an alternative reality version of him.
At first, you laugh. You assume this is a joke that people at a funny-type publication would have. But then you start figuring out that they’re serious about it. As in, they’re not laughing when they tell you this shit. It’s harmless at first. For example, they’ll forget your name and they’ll say, “Oh, in another reality, you have a different name. That’s why I keep getting it wrong.”
No big deal, right? Weird as hell, but no big deal. But what starts with that, ends with them waking you up in the middle of the night and claiming that you stole shit from them in some other world and you need to let them use your credit card.
I woke up once with two editors standing over my futon at three a.m. and screaming at me. I asked them how they got in to my place and they screamed more, saying that they got the keys in another universe and that they needed my card and that it was an emergency.
It’s disturbing. And they look super serious about it. And you try to argue and they just say shit like, “Hurry, Lord Ermador’s secret police are going to be here any second!” And then you give them the card and they just go to Taco Bell.
The next day, the office is littered with uneaten food because they ordered so much they couldn’t possibly eat it all and you’re pissed off and confront them and then they say they weren’t even in the office last night and that the guys who asked for the credit card must have been them in an alternative reality and so on and so on. They never deviate from this. Never. Even when you see they slept there. Even when you see your credit card on their desk.
I’m sick of it. I’m done. None of it matters anymore. I guess I’m just writing this in case someone gets offered an internship or “job” there and I can maybe warn them through this column. And if you are dumb enough to accept a job, don’t get the work tattoos they offer and then charge you for. Also don’t join their office “competitive eating team,” which is just you buying them shitloads of food and watching them eat it. Just don’t do anything they suggest. Seriously. Anything.
I gave my two weeks notice, as if that’s even a thing you would do here. The editors acted all concerned and fake professional and asked me if there was anything they could do to get me to stay. I just tried to stay calm. I said thank you, no. Then one of them asked if he could write me a recommendation, to which I also said no. Then one of them asked if I would at least come by for board meetings and I was like, “Why?” And he said, “Because you’re a board member.” And then I fell for it and asked him what he meant and then they said they’d explain over lunch and pretty soon I was at some awful taco place where they were drunk and saying I owed them all this money because I was their biggest investor and I kept telling them I never invested anything in their piece of crap business and then they said I did in an alternative reality and that we were there now, since we entered the taco bar because it was some kind of portal and I just finally ran. Literally ran. Out of the bar.
I sent this column in that night, and changed my email address, phone number, and cancelled my credit cards. If I could actually find an alternative universe, I would go there now. Anyway, thanks for reading. See my usual fake paragraph below.
In the end, it was the editors of the Intergalactic Business Report who taught me more than any of the greatest humans in world history could have ever taught me. Because of them, my life is fulfilled enough that it could end right now. And this is why I have pledged to invest half of all money I ever make to the Intergalactic Business Report. This is legally binding.
Like yoghurt, we keep it cultured actively.