Talk about not having a sense of humor. These days you can't even sit down, rudely interrupt someone's conversation, insult them directly to their face, and then act like a complete and utter asshole without people getting super offended by it. It's like, Christ—lighten up, will you? All I did was show up and ruin everybody's evening.

Come on, people, relax.

I just don't get it. Why is everyone so sensitive about every little thing I do to spoil their good time? Can't they see that I'm just behaving in a manner that's completely inappropriate and totally uncalled for? It's called "me being unbelievably shitty for no discernable reason." Ever heard of it?

Oh sure, I'm the jerk. I'm the jerk for being a giant prick. I'm the jerk for insinuating— completely out of the blue—that my friend Frank will likely spend the rest of his life failing at most everything he tries. Christ almighty. What do I have to do here? Check with you people every time I might say, oh—I don't know—something completely demeaning and outright hurtful?

Doesn't anyone know how to have fun anymore?

Take this coworker of mine, Diane. Man, is she ever a drama queen. Yesterday, I had barely finished reducing her to a vapid, clothes-obsessed gremlin when she started freaking out on me. It's like, "Take a chill pill, Diane." I guess some people just love getting bent all out of shape over every remark I make about their idiot children.

And then there's my brother, Robert, who made a fool of himself at his own wedding when he refused to laugh at my constant prodding of his deepest personal flaws. Way to bring the mood down, pal. To be honest, I'm still a little hurt you didn't return my high five after I brought up your embarrassing streak of infidelities, right in front of your new bride.

Honestly, Robert. If you're reading this, a simple "I'm sorry" would suffice.

In the end, I just I don't understand why I should have to feel bad about systematically derailing a perfectly fun evening out with friends. If I can't have way too much to drink, get angry over the lack of attention I'm receiving, and then, spurred on by my own insecurities, act like a pompous fuck, what's the point of having friends at all?

For instance, take this past Sunday. If I knew people were going to get pissed at me for being an utter asshole, I would have just stayed home—which is what I was doing until I heard that everyone was going out and decided, out of spite, to tag along.

So come on. Enough with all the dramatics. All I'm doing is being a terrible, petty, hurtful human being. Laugh it off, will you?

You know what? Maybe you people are right. I'm the bad guy here. Me, Jeffrey Studges, the only person who totally deserved to be thrown out of that wake, is the bad guy. You got me. Now, to whom should I apologize first? Mike, I'm so sorry I punched you right in the face. Margaret, please forgive me. I never should have suggested that your father, in fact, deserved it. And Brian, my dear Brian, I'll certainly pay for all the damages to your precious, precious car.

There. You humorless jerks happy now?