DON'T PISS ME OFF!!!

Meg McCarville DON'T PISS ME OFF!!! (2022)
I've come across this sort of thing before, even done it myself to a certain extent - self-published collections of emails and the like which you really felt were worth preserving for the benefit of future generations. However, this is different because we're talking Meg McCarville, with what she describes as a collection of my most violent, viral, and vicious emails, text messages, and Yelp! reviews. This isn't one of those things where some web designer you've never heard of passive-aggressively corrects plebeian clients who have failed to comprehend the basic principles of design.

The next day it was 90 degrees outside and I slowly started to realize that my room had no air conditioning. Besides that, it had black mold in the bathroom, no remote control, a bizarre closet with no bar with a door that might only barely fit a human carcass inside, with a wooden desk pushed up against the door. The desk had a drawer that had FUCK OFF carved into it. This drawer also had creepily opened and closed of its own will, but I have two dealbreakers. Bed bugs and no AC.

The first message kicks off on the very first page, no foreplay, no preamble, just straight into are we LONELY on thanksgiving you dumb fucking crackhead CUNT? There's no title page, no fancy shit, a freewheeling approach to punctuation, a ton of the angriest CAPSLOCK you ever did see, and what amounts to Meg backing an eighteen wheeler dump truck up to the reader and unloading a megaton of weapons grade sarcasm and wrath, the kind which reduces the harshest, blackest metal band you've ever heard to Daniel O'Donnell; and she's very, very funny because these are mostly righteous sermons which really needed to be made; and they're massively satisfying because most of us have been on the same end of at least one of the shitty sticks described herein, or at least I have. That said, some of the fury tips over into the sort of disturbing territory which means you're probably not going to find copies of this on sale at the counter of your local bookstore next to Who Farted? She reaches such a peak of anger during the final ten page tirade against an unidentified party that she's hitting the wrong keys half the time, leaving us to unscramble the RESULTIDGN cASPLOK CHOAS, which actually sort of works, weirdly enough. If I had any complaint, I suppose it could have been longer, but being as the existing sixty-nine pages read like a continuous rocket blast in the face of everyone who ever said something stupid, it's probably the length it needs to be.

Buy as many copies as you need here, then also pick up American Victim which is incredible and for which I'll get around to posting a review at some point.