In case you thought we can only manage to upset guys who’ve tried to give Sheri Valera the tongue, you were way, way off:

My heart is sick and sad.

How often do we have to tell Pete M. we don’t play on that team — and we don’t care if your team needs a shortstop. Not even if it needs a shortstop real bad.

Wait a second. Wait a second! This isn’t about Pete “The M. stands for Man except that I forgot the L for Ladies’ in front of it” M. It’s about somebody else’s wish for a death blow (not because of who you are, but for different reasons altogether.) Yet who could it be?

It seems that my neighbour has forgotten me. After all my properly directed snark and vitriol — nay, after bravely joining in the fray after he had kicked the crap out of “the hottest conservative writer” of that particular day — after my several posts which were blatantly sycophantic judiciously praising of his style, nothing.

Well, the writing is a bit like Amber Pawlik with a touch of Engrish.com, so it’s hard to say.

To no avail. Each time I rang, a shifty-eyed tweaker would peer through the blinds, and if I persisted in ringing, would eventually answer the door, only to gruffly send me on my way.

Oh oh. Looks like someone had an unfortunate encounter with a certain someone who used to babysit here.

The post continues somewhat after that, although much of it deals with a young man’s decidedly unerotic [no, not neurotic] journey from Montreal to Munich, and the less that is said about such a journey, the better. We shall simply say to our unidentified assailant, in case he had hoped for a lengthy and witty riposte: we choose not to flame.

Now go show Retardo of elementropy some love, so we don’t have to.