For some reason, the government frowns on self-lobotomies. It's not safe, they say. You're scooping your brains out with a rusty spoon, they say. You left your skull cap on the floor and your cat's sitting in it, they say.
All true. But it was the only solution. You see, I write the copy for the covers of those tabloids you see near the checkout line of nearly every supermarket in America. The other day, I wrote the title of an article that featured Kim Kardashian, who's gained a few pounds as a result of being pregnant. It read: "Retarded Whale Beaches Itself On The Streets Of New York." A tad harsh maybe, and I'll admit that the first thing that came to mind after writing it was that after work I should ejaculate into a hooker's ear. But the second thing that came to mind was that I just might be exposing children to morally bankrupt messages simply because they're accompanying their parents to the grocery store.
This was bad. I was starting to develop a conscience, which is a deadly thing in my line of work. Self-lobotomy seemed like the only sane option. So one night, after letting a hooker shit in my ear, I went home and did what I felt like I needed to do.
It's not all bad, of course. Nowadays, I take pleasure in little things like ejaculating into my ear, coloring the walls with crayon and re-watching Saved By The Bell. Best of all, I've been doing some of my best work at the magazine. We've just gotten some exclusive photos of Gwyneth Paltrow sneaking a few bites from a cupcake. The caption's going to read "Beautiful Actress Slowly Morphing Into A Cankle-Faced Blob." It just might be my masterpiece.