To my agent, for taking 15% of my money for access to your contact list. You know what agents do? They set up toll booths in front of bridges they don’t own. I’m pretty much paying you to take down the barriers you and your buddies set up and maintain for a living—and now you want me to thank you? Do you have any sense of shame? Really. Should I also thank the guy who stole my Civic last week? And guess what, buddy? The joke’s on you—because you’re going to end up with 15% of zero dollars and zero cents.
To my publisher, for taking 40% of my money and pissing it away. You guys are almost as bad as my agent. You know what publishers do? They waste time and money. That just about sums it up. I’m basically paying for your $8/square foot/month prime Manhattan office space, your CEO’s mistress’s plastic surgery, a “publicity campaign” that consists of telling my mom the book is out, the $1,000 suits your employees wear, the $1 million sexual harassment suit your company lost, a $500 cover design that somehow ended up costing $20,000, your insistence on having face to face meetings with book buyers (as if they can’t order a book unless they see a human being next to it), the annual meetings where you decide how to waste more money next year, the CFO and accountant who calculate how much money you wasted last year, Simon’s coke addiction, Schuster’s PCP addiction , and your employees’ lunch meetings that are eighty seven parts lunch and one part meeting. … What’s that? You want me to spend two hours and $10 printing and sending over a manuscript? Yeah—that makes sense… in your world. Um… ever heard of the internet?! Apparently not—because you’ve been doing things the same way for the last five hundred and seventy two years. You know what? You’re worse than my agent. After all, you’re the ones who are forcing me to work with agents in the first place.
To the communists (a.k.a. the United States government), for giving a chunk of my money to a bunch of marijuana smoking hippies.
To my ex-wife, for cashing my $2,000 check every month. And would you mind explaining why I’m the one paying you money. How did your lawyer manage to pull that one off?! You’re the one who supported me for 90% of our marriage, and now you’re taking 150% of my less than nonexistent income! And let’s not forget about your new boyfriend, Mr. Pretty Boy Multi Millionaire “Options Trader” (code word for Gambler). You’re making 90 grand a year and dating your own personal ATM machine, I’m living in a 6’ by 6’ apartment with a combination sink/shower/toilet—and yet, you have no problems squeezing some extra money out of me—most of which probably goes to your beloved purse and shoe collection.
To Cai Lun, for inventing paper.