I don't consider myself a "home chef" nor do I consider myself exceptionally learned in the gastronomic arts. I don't even fancy myself a pretentious douchebag "foodie". But I know what I like, and I like to think I can hold my own in the kitchen. I'd rather cook than go out for dinner, and my dishes usually draw raves from those for whom I cook. I'm a hobbyist. Nothing more, nothing less. The only thing I'm sure of (most of the time) is that I'm a hell of a lot better than Aunt Sandy. Occasionally the culinary gods disagree. Pride goeth before the fall and whatnot.

If you're not familiar with Aunt Sandy, you've been missing out on some high comedy. You think your favorite sitcom is funny? You have no idea. I'm just sayin', the best comedy is the unintentional comedy. And nothing makes unintentional comedy like equal parts blind adventurousness, hubris and cluelessness. Cocktail time!

Anyway, back to ME! Occasionally, I get a wild hair up my ass. But that's neither here nor there. The point is that there are times when I forget what I can't do, and bad ideas start to sound like good ideas. I get a little too big for my britches and convince myself that this time, I've got a fighting chance against the kryptonite.

My kryptonite? Rice. Plain ole fuckin' rice.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm more than capable of throwing a cup of rice and two cups of liquid into a microwave-safe dish and blasting that shit for 5 minutes on high and 15 minutes on 50%. Which is usually what I do, and it works out fine. It's the dishes where the rice has to be cooked in with other shit which never fail to end up with me punching my own self repeatedly in the groin.

Which is why I figured it would be a fantastic idea to cook up a big pot of something vaguely resembling jambalaya* over Memorial Day weekend. What could possibly go wrong?

I mean, shit. I can poach an egg. I can make a hollandaise. I can do steak au poivre and coq au vin. I can do fresh pasta and I can make a soufflé. I fry a mean oyster, and I can knock out a stack of killer crêpes. No way in hell I'm letting this Mahatma™ chump defeat me! (Again.)

Dammit! You win this round, Aunt Sandy. I'm sure you and your BFF Tony Bourdain will have a hearty chuckle at my expense.

In my defense, I was gonna make a Kwanzaa Cake™ but I'll be damned if I could find a box of Kwanzaa Cake Mix at my local groshry store. Go figure. And those asshole squirrels keep bogarting all the acorns! Shit!!!

*Here's the thing, my experience making jambalaya is minimal. For one thing, I've got a lifelong friend who makes a killer jambo, so I usually don't have to worry about it. Secondly, most of the time I'm well aware of the fact that rice kicks my ass, and everyone else I know is also well aware of that fact.

But like I said, occasionally I do get a wild hair (which is still neither here nor there, just sayin' is all) and wanna try some stupid shit. Some wacky Semi-Ho shit. That'll show 'em!

So I hatched this here brilliant idea/evil plan. Smoke a pork butt over hickory for half a day. Then braise that same pork butt in mojo for another couple hours, carnitas style. Then pull the pork look at it the wrong right way, causing it to fall apart. Then throw that into a pot with some sausage, rice (wait, what?) and some canned pie filling and pumpkin pie spice and whatnot.

The goal? A big huge pot of some kind of crazy-ass barbecue/latin/creole Wangalaya type thing. Or, in other words, fuck if I know. But it sure did sound good at the time.

And it would have been great, had I not refused to acknowledge my own limitations. Respect the enemy. Don't get too big for your britches. That kind of thing. But noooooo.

Oh, it started out incredibly successful. Day 1: Rubbed the meat (but again I digress.) Salt, pepper, onion, garlic, pimentón (in your face, Giada!) and all the other standard stuff except chili powder and cumin (didn't think those were called for with this.) Let it sit in the fridge for a day. Got my trinity all prepped.

Day 2: Smoking/braising day. Glorious. Started with a happy accident, the butt had a huge streak of fat running right down the middle, and when I took it out of the fridge, it fell into two pieces. I've got a hunch that I'll be doing that on purpose from now on. Anyway, they went about 7 hours over hickory.

While I was smoking, I put a couple sticks of Carolina Pride™ Brand store-bought smoked sausage on there too, to smoke some more and get the casing all nice and crispy and black. I like my smoked sausage smoky, slightly dried out and charred on the outside. Should have known to put an extra stick on, because probably half of it never made it into the final dish.

Here's where I think I unwittingly started burning up all my khitchen kharma though, because when the time came to braise, I found myself succumbing to the urge to go all Semi-Ho with it.

I've made mojo a million times, it's not like it's hard. If it were a different kind of dish, and if I weren't already spending the better part of three days on it, I might have gone ahead and done that. But at the risk of offending anyone's foodie snobbery sensibilities, Goya™ Brand Mojo Criollo does the job just fine, thank you very much. It's a fine product, tasty, and a handy thing to have in the fridge.

Anyway, it's not like the prefab groshry store mojo was the problem. Aunt Sandy is right about one (and only one) thing: We ought not be snobs about all prefab products. I mean, shit, do you churn your own butter? Do you not use prefab spice blends? Go ahead, just try to tell me you don't have a pantry full of canned, jarred and boxed shit. I dare ya. And for that matter, keep on believing that there were no prefab products on that plate at the 5-star restaurant you paid $100 to have a world-class chef prepare for you. But that's a rant for another day, on some message board or other.

What I failed to take into account was the effect on the khitchen kharma. I was already up against my own personal kitchen nemesis, and in my arrogance, I go and anger the culinary gods by selling a little piece of my soul to Aunt Sandy. Shit, how did I not see this coming? I should have known, and I should have backed away slowly right then and there to regroup.

In retrospect, I could have "deconstructed" the whole damn thing and not only would it have kicked large amounts of ass, I could have ducked the champ and been showered with foodie props for having "deconstructed" something. Something that was goddamn fusion in the first place! Double whammy! People would have been trying to goad me into walking up to Morimoto™ and slapping him across the face with a duelling glove and shit.

But noooo. I just had to press on. At this point, not only am I marching right into enemy lines without breaking formation, I'm also blissfully unaware of the fact that I'm knee-deep in Semi-Ho quicksand. Damn you, Aunt Sandy! Damn you!!!

Day 3: Best laid plans. Wang's hubris comes back to bite him right on the wang.

I even went so far as to drain the pork from the braising liquid and measure it out to adjust the water. Should have known that asshole Mahatma™ would have known I'd do that, and would counter by sending Reggie Bush™ in motion in an effort to fuck my world up.

Never saw it coming though.

Sauté the hell out of the trinity (in bacon fat, no less!) and dump everything into the pot. The soup tasted like God's sweat. There were like six choirs singing in the background, and at least one orchestra that routinely gets gigs backing Aerosmith and/or Cypress Hill.

Meantime, I'm sinking further into the Semi-Ho quicksand and still don't even realize it. Gotta up the ante on the whole latin vibe. Need some texture too. Frozen corn. A can of black beans. A jar of roasted red bells. A can of Hunts™ Fire Roasted Dice Tomatoes. (Another fine product, for the record. You and Giada and Tyler Florence can keep your cans of Cento™ Brand™ Real™ San Marzano™ tomatoes straight from the fields of Naples™.)

As evil schemes go, it was pretty fuckin' brilliant if I do say so myself. And I'd have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those meddling kids and their dog! Oh, and the rice. Have I mentioned the asshole rice?

Oh, the shame. The crippling, soul-crushing shame. When it was all over, I couldn't even bring myself to serve it. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around how something can be overcooked and undercooked at the same time. Half gummy and disintegrated, half crunchy and raw.

Norm Macdonald: WHAT THE H?!?

Yes, Aunt Sandy, I'm well aware of the wonders of Uncle Ben's. And since I was already balls-deep into the Semi-Ho quicksand anyway, why I insisted on Real™ raw long-grain rice is anyone's guess.

Actually, I know exactly why. Mahatma™ is my white whale, and as God™ is my witness, I shall not rest until I defeat him. My culinary genitals can plead for mercy until the cows come home, I remain steadfast in my resolve. It is my life's mission.

Meantime, damn did I think I had the drop on him this time. He was on the ropes and bleeding from his left eye. It was in the bag.

Sigh. Hate world. Revenge soon. Take out on everyone.

Unfortunately, shortly after my last post, I received a fax from the league office informing me that I was being locked out of my WordPress admin section. This left me with no recourse but to decertify as a blog and file for an injunction. Yesterday, that injunction was granted, and now the plan is to do what any enterprising fan would: Sue their dongs off and hope that it gets me my 15 minutes as some kind of working class hero.

Meantime, while I'm clearing out a month worth of spam from the comments and shopping for process servers in Manhattan, I figured I'd throw a bunch of shit at the wall and see what sticks.

–The lockout, in two sentences:

Homer: You know, Mr. Burns, you're the richest man I know… way richer than Lenny.
Burns: Yes, but I'd trade it all for a little more.

–To the extent that I care enough about any of this bullshit to "take a side" I'm leaning more and more toward the owners by the day. If for no other reason than that I'm getting about sick and damn tired of the players' sanctimony, and the incessant pandering to fans' blue-collar righteousness.

To hear some of these guys talk, you'd swear that they're coal miners or steel workers or something, and it's Hard Times because The Man done put 'em out of work and the bankers are gonna come a-knockin' any day now. Suddenly we're supposed to be able to relate to all these real-world troubles they're dealing with… because we've all been there, right? "Damn, bro. What am I gonna do if my kid gets sick while I don't have any health insurance? I'd have to sell the beach house and at least a handful of cars." Quit trying to cozy up to the commonfolk and (suddenly) acting like we're supposed to be "bros" or whatever. It's phony. It's a blatant attempt at emotional manipulation. It's insulting.

Equally insulting is Drew Brees' "Daddy's gonna make it all better" approach. Oh don't you worry your simple little heads about it, fans. You'll have your NFL football, just stay calm and try not to cry. Drew's gonna see to it that The Good Guys prevail, and you're never gonna have to worry about the bogeyman hiding in your closet ever again. Meantime, just remember that I'm on your side and anything those evil old men on the other side tell you is a pack of damn lies! Yo Drew, how about you save that shit for Baylen and Bowen?

"Millionaires vs. Billionaires" might be a superficial take on it, but it does strike right at the heart of the matter.

Sure, the eight-figure-signing-bonus guys want us fans to fixate on the (false) notion that it's all about taking care of the poor poor pitiful guys at the bottom of the roster who "only" get a free ride through college and an entry-level salary of $325,000/yr for as long as they can hold onto the gig, before heading back to their hometown or college town and putting their local fame and well-chosen General Studies degree to good use selling cars or insurance, or coaching high school football, or reading the scores on the local news. Hard Times indeed.

I'm a bit more sympathetic to the "effort" (to whatever extent that it actually exists) to take care of the legions of half-mutilated bodies The League left in its wake back in the days when (they'd have you believe that) being a Green Bay Packer was no better than being an actual meat packer.

But we all know that those issues are little more than the fine print in all this. Disingenuous, emotionally-manipulative fine print.

Look, you'll never hear me begrudge the players their money, whether it's "only" $325k/yr or an eight figure signing bonus. All I ask is that you spare me the sob stories. Spare me the implication that you're no different from coal miners or steel workers. Spare me the appeals for blue-collar solidarity. Spare me the boo-hooing about having to go to the trouble of finding a gym and *gasp* having to pay for it. And spare me the tongue-in-cheek references to how you're gonna have to hit your uncle up for a temp gig at the local factory to make ends meet.

At least the Billionaires aren't being phony about it. Jerry Jones isn't pretending he's my "bro" all of a sudden. Daniel Snyder isn't asking me to "relate" to his Hard Times. They're not pretending this is about anything other than what it is. Oh, they're assholes too. Don't get me wrong. But at least I can respect the fact that they're not pretending otherwise.

–Last night, on a dare, I drank a 15 ounce bottle of A-1. I was sad when it was over, and wanted to do it again. Is that wrong?

–Assuming you're not Chinese, or a wall, I'm pretty sure I can kick your ass at ping pong.

–Saints Mock Draft Version 1(.0!!! Oh how I loathe the pointless tenth)
1 (24) – Mark Ingram – TB – Springfield University Nittany Tide
2 (56) – Bruce Carter – LB – North Carolina
3a (72) – Jerrell Powe – DT – Ole Miss
3b (88) – Pernell McPhee – DE – Mississippi State
7a (225) – Noel Devine – TB – West Virginia
7b (242) – Danny Aiken – LS – Virginia

"Oh you're so full of shit, Wang. It's not enough that you continue to insist on a tailback in the first, now you've got the Saints taking TWO OF THEM??? Take your anti-Reggie agenda and go fuck yourself." Guilty as charged. And being as I mainly did that just to piss you off, mission accomplished. High five!

Hey, it's no secret that if I had my way, the Reggie Bush Experience would come to a merciful end this offseason. You disagree, fair enough. You believe that Reggie and the team are going to be able to come to terms on a far more palatable contract. I think that's going to be extremely difficult. You believe that the Saints are fine at tailback. I disagree. You think that improving the pass rush, most likely at the left defensive end position, is a far greater need. I say a defensive end is unlikely to make much impact as a rookie. And when exactly did you abandon your "BPA!!!!" "philosophy" (this time) anyway?

Hey, if it makes you feel better, think of Devine as a BPA pick to replace Courtney Roby as the team's kick returner. And as an insurance policy if worse comes to worst, he provides better insurance at tailback than Roby does at wideout, and the tailback position is more likely to need insurance than wideout anyway. Worried about room on the roster to carry five tailbacks? Why? He's replacing Roby on the roster. You just carry five tailbacks and five receivers, rather than the usual four tailbacks and six receivers. And if you're not comfortable with that, I'm not so sure Heath Evans is all that necessary these days. Stick Dave Thomas in there on the 4 or 5 plays per game where you're lining up a fullback.

"Whatever, Wang. There's no way in hell they're doing that." Fair enough. I'm not trying to guess what the Saints are going to do, so I can come back and shout "Called it!" afterwards. Being "right" on a pick is like hitting double-zero on a roulette wheel. It doesn't make you good, it makes you lucky. So I'm not concerned with being "right." I'm just working out what I'd do. And before you say it, yeah, I'm just as glad as you are that I'm not the Saints' GM. High five!

–Best shows currently on tee vee: Fringe, Justified

–Funniest show since Arrested Development: Archer

–Saints Mock Draft Version 2(.0!!!)
1 (24) - Drake Nevis – DT – LSU
2 (56) - Terrance Tolliver – WR – LSU
3a (72) – Joseph Barksdale – OT – LSU
3b (88) – Kelvin Sheppard – LB – LSU
7a (225) – Stevan Ridley – TB – LSU
7b (242) – Lazarius "Pep" Levingston – DE/DT – LSU

(Psst: That one too was mainly just to piss you off.)

–Jeff Duncan hates bloggers. Just throw it on the ever-growing pile of things Jeff Duncan hates, I guess. Has Duncan always been this assy? Or did the world piss in his cornflakes just recently? Maybe it's just "legitimate media" arrogance manifesting itself. It does seem to be a common theme with him.

On the first day of the combine, Duncan replied to a tweet from one of his colleagues about the high number of media credentials issued by calling it "a hack attack!" One suspects that there were a few too many unfamiliar faces representing new media publications, and it left Jeff confused and irritable.

On the day the Redskins released Clinton Portis, Duncan again took to Twitter to pre-emptively bemoan all the questions he was gonna get from the common folk about whether or not the Saints ought to sign him.

On the day the Saints released Jeremy Shockey, Duncan wasted no time in taking to Twitter yet again to go all Kenny Wilkerson with it, dropping a cryptic comment implying that he pretty much hated Shockey's guts. Requests for elaboration, of course, were met with tumbleweeds and cricket sounds. War stories are only for members of the club, I suppose.

And most recently, Duncan (for some reason) saw the sentencing of Greg McRae to 17 years in prison as an opportunity for some kind of "A ha!!!" moment against "idiot bloggers" and, I guess, to puff his chest on behalf of the entire "legitimate (print) media" industry. Or something.

Hey, don't get me wrong, kudos to Brendan McCarthy and the Times-Pic for their efforts in exposing a heinous act and serving the principle of justice. (I mean, it's not like an "idiot blogger" could ever accomplish something like that, amiright Jeff?) But for a sports columnist to use the work of a colleague in the crime bureau as the basis for a petty "Wooo! Bloggers suck, journalists rule!" Twitter bomb is just… bizarre.

Perhaps Jeff is confusing bloggers with Message Board Guy. It's the message boards (one in particular) that we know for a fact Jeff actually bothers to read, because that's where he goes to hype his book, and certain columns he thinks will go over particularly well. And it's Message Board Guy who never tires of bitching about anyone and everyone in the legitimate media. (Psst… hey Jeff, they bitch about us bloggers too. High five?) It's Message Board Guy who leaves all the inane comments below his columns on nola dot com. Maybe Jeff's just got his internet jargon mixed up.

I've long suspected that many legitimate media types are secretly envious of us bloggers because, while they get to earn a living off their work, we get to say "fuck" as much as we want. Fuckitty fuck fuck fuck. We don't have to deal with editors (then again, judging by nola dot com, neither do they these days) or deadlines. Or try to figure out a way to conjure up 500 words when there's absolutely nothing going on. We bloggers can just say fuck it, pop a brewski and play some ping pong. High five!

But I'm sure it's not that, given that not a single one of them has taken me up on my offer to trade places. Not yet, anyway.

Come on, Jeff. Bloggers aren't your enemy. Embrace your unpaid internet colleagues! Hell, at this point, you're basically one of us. A quick glance at nola dot com's Saints page pretty much confirms it, what with all the YouTube videos, the hastily-published segments and/or rough drafts of what will eventually be full-blown articles, the lists of links to content from elsewhere, the constant solicitations for ideas (Send in your mailbag questions!) followed by half-assed five-minute segments dismissively replying to them, and of course the daily "your name in lights!" post to draw attention to the one person who managed to compose a halfway-coherent comment that day.

Is that what's got you so cranky, Jeff? Is it that they're trying to pull you down to our level? Or is it that it's only a matter of time before they start slapping credentials on some of us and asking you to treat us like we're on your level? Or is it a whole lot of both?

Either way, how about you go ahead and get over it already and quit being a dick?

I have no idea how close this is to Kevin's. Probably not very. The internets went all apeshit from the moment Kevin unleashed this delicious abomination, and the Googles list probably a hundred takes on it. As is my usual wont, I got the jist of about 6 or 7 of 'em, then just did what I wanted. The result follows…

A 24 oz pack of thick-cut applewood smoked bacon
(You could go with a pound, but you'll realize later why a 24 oz pack will come in handy.)
2 medium to large onions
(White, yellow, red, whatever. I love onions, so I used big ones.)
4 or 5 cloves of garlic, minced
1 cup of black coffee
About 1/3 cup of brown sugar
About 1/4 cup of apple cider vinegar
About 1/4 cup of maple syrup
Sriracha a.k.a. cock sauce (droooool…)
A shitload of black pepper
Smoked paprika and allspice to taste

Slice your bacon into squares and fry them up in a dry pan over medium-high heat until not-quite-done.

Meantime, slice up your onions into thin strips.

Remove the bacon to drain on some paper towels. I poured about half the rendered bacon fat out of the pan. I didn't see anybody else mention doing this, but it just looked like a hell of a lot of fat. This stuff is evil enough without reserving ALL the fat. Just enough to cover the bottom of the pan worked really well for me.

Anyway, drop the heat to medium-low and add your onions to the pan with the bacon fat, and caramelize the shit out of 'em. My guess is that it took about 40 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes or so. Don't leave the heat too high or the onions will fry.

When the onions are caramelized, add the garlic and your liquids. Apple cider vinegar, maple syrup and coffee.

Simmer that for a couple minutes, then add your bacon back to the pan, along with your brown sugar and spices. Black pepper is quite possibly my favorite thing in the world, and the metric shitload is the smallest unit of measure I recognize. But everything here is to taste. Next time, I'll use a little more sriracha and I might omit the allspice. I'm not sure it was necessary.

Here's the part where you realize why you went with the 24 oz pack of bacon rather than some chump-ass :pounder: . Because you've been picking off the pile of draining bacon the entire time the onions were caramelizing. Don't even try to deny it. You probably haven't whittled it down a full (pre-cooked) 8 ounces, but when's the last time you ruined a recipe because there was too much bacon? I'm not sure that particular sequence of words even makes sense.

Stir to combine, then let simmer for a long long time. I went about 2.5 hours or so, stirring every 15-20 minutes. You might need to add extra liquid every now and then, but ultimately you want most of the liquid reduced out. When it's nice and dark and ugly, remove it from the heat and let it cool for 20 minutes or so. Then stick it all into a food processor and spin it up until it's a chunky paste. I ended up with roughly two 12 oz Mason jars worth. Then make like G. Love and stick it in the fridge.

Spread liberally on the nearest edible or semi-edible surface and prepare to say "holy shit" repeatedly. Do not offer this to anyone who you don't want to immediately start taking their clothes off.

Sweet, spicy, smoky, porky, fatty… what's not to love? Tell your cardiologist to stick it. What does that asshole know anyway?

See, I have this internet friend named Peyton [last name withheld]. Peyton is going to get a tattoo on his ribs soon, but he has run into a bit of a snag whilst preparing his design. The problem is that the font of his choosing, MS Serif, is too small. He needs for the text to be far larger, because he’s a big guy with huge ribs.

Naturally, Peyton did what anyone would do in that situation. He started a thread on an internet message board to ask if anyone knew of a bigger font he could use.

It’s a perfectly reasonable way to approach such a problem, in my opinion. I mean, what would you have done? Not started a thread on an internet message board to ask for help in finding a larger font? Yeah, right. How else would you propose solving this problem? What good are message boards if not to solicit input on every excruciatingly minute challenge you face in your day to day life. It’s the information age, for crying out loud. Why try, when you can just consult the internet?

The downside though is that message boards are full of meanies who are all too quick to judge and mock you for posting such questions. They can’t understand how someone could possibly not already know the answer, and not bother trying to figure it out on your own. Like they expect everybody to be as smart as… oh, let’s say a doctor.

I faced a similar issue myself some time ago. You know how sometimes people type words and the letters are all slanty? See, I’ve always wanted to do that. But how?!?!?!? This was a very important issue for me, and I was at a loss as to how to do it. Sure, I thought about highlighting a section of text and experimenting with the buttons at the top which were lined up under the words "Text Formatting Controls:" One of the buttons even had the letter I on it, and the I was all slanty. I thought to myself "Hmmm…. you know, maybe…."

But what if it didn’t work? What if it had all been just a big waste of time? Time I don’t have to fuck around with text formatting options that may or may not yield the desired result? What if it just made it worse, and then I didn’t know how to undo what I had just done? What might it do to my self esteem if I tried and failed? You never know how things like that are gonna go, so I didn’t see the point in risking it.

So I did exactly what Peyton did… what any 21st century red-blooded American would do… I tried nothing, and pled for assistance on an internet message board and waited for the scores of message board posters to line up to help me out, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to bask in the warm, glowing warming glow of altruistic goodwill that would surely spew forth from my message board brethren.

But that’s not what happened. Oh, no. I was shocked and appalled to find that the preponderance of the reaction was one of bemusement. They mocked me mercilessly. They questioned my intelligence. They wondered aloud how I could possibly function in society, and whether or not I might have been dropped on my head repeatedly as an infant. They chastised me for what they considered to be a pitiful lack of basic problem-solving skills and the most rudimentary of computer literacy. They implied that I was a lazy, unthinking, attention-starved asshole who came off like he was all but helpless to clear even the smallest of daily hurdles.

It hurt, man. Deep down, I knew they were right. But it hurt. I won’t lie, I cried a little.

Then I clipped my toenails, and then I took out the trash and cooked some eggs.

Then I cried some more. And then I got ANGRY! And I reported those meanies to the mods. And that felt good.

So I masturbated.

And then I reported other posts by friends of the aforementioned meanies. And that felt REALLY good, so I masturbated again. And then I cried again, but this time, for different reasons.

And then I watched a few episodes of Scrubs, and I took notes on various plot points that I could change up a little and work into future message board posts as if they were things that happened to me.

It wasn’t the most pleasant weekend for me.

Except for the masturbating, and the eggs.

But I showed them. I still don’t know how to make the slanty text, but they’ll think twice next time they dare judge a person for needing a little help solving such a complicated, daunting problem without making the slightest effort to solve it on his own.

Welcome to 21st Century America, you meanies! I am the new reality, and someday I might just find myself with your life in my hands. And then YOU will need MY help, and you will have egg on your face.

Egg!

Is it true that you could go blind from doing that too much?

Damn, Kenny. Just go ahead and click the submit button on the contact form already. I tried to make the anti-spam challenge question as easy as I could.

We don’t hate you here. We goof on you because it’s fun, and you make yourself an easy target. But we certainly don’t wish you any specific harm. Want to tell your side of the story? We’ll publish it. Or, if you prefer, just vent your spleen about what assholes we are. Either way is fine. I’m a big boy, I can take it. Got something to say, say it.