Infinitely Retarded: Scott Adams is an Ass Hat

It is a hot day, the sun already boring through the one hole of your hut, waking you. It is to be another dreary day in the world of the internets, but you remember the beheading today. You forget just exactly who it is this time, but know you could never turn down a good beheading. Skipping breakfast to ensure a good view you tend to your outward self in the mirror, and reassure your inner self with boastful empty words, and head out the door only to find so many already streaming down the street. Joining in, the flow streams right on down toward town square, past all the homes and businesses always changing; past the chickens scattering about your feet; past the children and their sacred eyes, down, down into the belly of the beast.

"Now hear this!" Above your head the hawkers hang from wooden poles, reeds in a river of ignorance, drifting slowly by.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" Smiling rotten teeth, drifting slowly on by. "Scott Adams is an ass hat!"

You think to ask who's Scott Adams, but an old lady with a hairy lip and one milky white eye like that of a gypsy witch, spits up black death from her lungs and asks first.

"The creator of Dilbert" the hawker replies, "to be beheaded today, and as you can see, traffic is rather congested accordingly."

"Dilbert?" the gypsy woman asks, but the hawker has already drifted on behind her.

"You know, like Office Space, only not funny" a nearby man in the stream replies.

"You're just not smart enough to get it," another fish rebuts.

A great groan erupts in waves, yet still the stream continues on down toward town square, like water drawn straight down the drain. The guillotine glints in its cruelty far off. From the growing buzz you can already tell you are getting closer. The walk is long but its reward is worth it, and your belly begins to squeal its discontent at being so empty. There is not a morsel to be had, and no way to stop in such a flow of human thought, but when the blade comes in full view you're brimming with excitement and all thought of food quickly escapes you. The world gathers around this stage of death. The air is full of hate, thick and heavy in the lungs and stinging to the eyes. You can almost smell it. Looking at your feet, you can see how all the traffic has turned the soil underfoot to sludge, thickening already in the sun. Through the hatred, warm knife through butter, they bring out Scott Adams, out to the stage, out to where he could be seen by the rows of molten angry eyes. He stand unaffected, still content with his self assessment of genius. His crimes against the internet being sockpuppetry, or the use of a pseudonym or alternate online identity to deceive members of an online community or otherwise spread intense douchery in an effort to praise and/or defend one's self or ideals.

For Scott Adams this meant lurking forums under the username PlannedChaos and defending Dilbert and himself from haters or anyone generally talking shit. His favorite thing to point out was that Scott Adams (himself) was a genius, with a matching IQ to prove it, therefore making anyone who disapproved of him or his strip stupid because 'they didn't get it.' He lurked for months under this username, defending Scott Adams selflessly, to the point where many people accused him of being his boyfriend. Whether or not Dilbert is 'smart humor' can be debated, but how could such a thing be even considered possible when its creator is clearly the dumbest asshat in the bizz today?

How big of an asshat is he, you may ask? Well, Scott is such an asshat he actually blogged about men's rights, its prose flowing into a misogynistic rant that would make even Mel Gibson blush. He pondered what it would be like if women opened doors for men, and men were served first, what it would be like if the world didn't needlessly cater to women. What if you didn't have to hit on women to get laid? What if women had to hit on you? What if. . . what if. . . what if. . . He asked that we think of a world where society doesn't 'discourage male behavior' and 'celebrate female behavior.' He then went on to compare women to the mentally handicapped and children in need of candy, stating that the world gives them special privilege because 'its just easier this way for everyone.' And like a true asshat, when the shit hit the fan he deleted his post and posted an explanation as to why: that most Dilbert readers are of 'an unusually high reading comprehension level' and that as such 'the content of the piece inspires so much emotion in some, they literally can't understand it. . . Regular readers of Dilbert blog are pretty far along the bell curve toward rational thought, and relatively immune to emotional distortion.' So yeah, if you were offended, its because you're too dumb, and not of the reading level of those who read a CARTOON STRIP.

Stare into Bubbles' eyes, Scott, they clearly say FUCK OFF.

The sun beats down and you spit in the dust. You don't like him insinuating you're stupid. You don't like how he thinks he's so smart. The face up on the stage is the mask to your hate, grotesque up there before the stage. Let it no longer live, the swine.

He has already fallen so far. He once had his comic strip, and with it all the money he made from whoring it out, but now he runs a failing restaurant in a run-down strip mall in California. His employees hate him, and mock him behind his back. His head chef has confessed to media that he feels Mr. Adams has no idea what the fuck he is doing at all. The genius of course ignored it--he was a genius--and put out such bright ideas as adding a flat-screen television to that restaurant that would play nothing but Dilbert, a dress code for employee inspired by the Dilbert character (complete with ties curling upward at the end), puns on the menu, and a banquet room for events like 'Mommy Mojito Night,' nude volleyball, and some bullshit called 'murder mysteries.'

You look out over the crowd. Nearly time now. The crowd grows restless and past your head flys a head of lettuce. It hits the feet of Scott Adams and laughter erupts from the crowd. A miss. Other fruits and vegetables join the fray, the treacherous Adams frowning juice and seed as the stage spotted with bits of bruised fruits and rotten vegetables. An orange hits him square in the eye and the crowd around you cheers. The blade would bring him mercy, cease his shame and so many wish to compound it. You throw like a girl, so you dare not join in with the others, though you would really like to. Adams just stands there, his captors at his sides, the blade threatening up above, the bucket eagerly waiting down below.

The horns sound, the crowd eases back upon itself. You edge in for a closer view, and can see Adams standing smug despite his situation. Somewhere unseen in his head his mind works out some genius means of escape. His face flashes a smile. He attempts to run.

Slips.

Falls.

Laughter.

He is lifted.

You see their mouths moving. You cannot hear them talk. Adams weeps sarcastically, thinking still his genius will save him. They lower him upon the block, fasten tight the rope to hold him down. You try not to blink. If you blink you can miss it--the blade moves that fast. It hurts your eyes to keep them open for so long, they begin to flutter, and down comes the blade, a sound like wind blowing.

Thud.

And down his head goes, body left behind, the severing so fierce the head spills out of the bucket and out on to the stage. . .

Adams comes off pretty smug. I don't even care about Dilbert, but when I see such acts of douchery I must comment. Scott Adams commited 'sock puppetry' a bullshit internet word which basically means he went around on the internets pretending to be someone else with no affiliation with Scott Adams or Dilbert, and who had an undying love for the both of them, to the point where he felt the need to destroy anyone who felt differently.

But Adams actually thinks media is out to get him, to misuse his words to promote their own agenda, because so many people give a shit about what the creator of Dilbert has to say about real life shit existing outside of the small world of cubicles he created in the limited space of a comic script. Ha, what an asshole. I know personally I could give two shit, but then again, when you go around calling yourself a genius, you're inclined to believe that the mass of man feels similarly, and therefore must have some sort of interest in what you have to say, even if all you do is draw a shit strip for a dying medium (the newspaper.)

Yes, Mr. Adams you're a genius, but apparently being a genius doesn't stop one from being retarded.

With that said, I'd like to post some emails I've received, that were in no way written by me at all, emails that have been full of praise for iR:

Dear iR,

I think your blog is fucking awesome. I mean, really, its the best blog out there. All those people who say it sucks are probably really dumb, or just not big readers. But whatever right? Because that makes us so much smarter than them because they don't give a shit about what we give a shit about. And what we give a shit about is important, because, duh, we're geniuses. Anyway, I just wanna say thanks for all your work, and keep it up!

Your biggest fan,

Arnold Schwartz

And another!

Dear iR,

You have a massively huge dick. Anyone who says you have a small one is just jealous and too stupid to take into consideration such factors as weather, randiness, and overall girth. But whatever right? Anyway I just wanted to say that you have a massively huge dick. Hugely huge.

Love,

Jessica Alba

All very true, no sock puppetry going down Mr. Adams, none whatsoever.