Guided by the Hand of Manliness: the Excoriation of Jamie Rohrs

The idea behind this blog was to use it to pimp my writing. But I saw a news story about the Aurora, CO shooting and felt guided by the Hand of Manliness to comment.

I make the following declaration: for now on, into forever ad infinitum, whenever some young hipster uses the phrase “epic fail”, they will be referring to Jamie Rohrs, survivor of the Aurora Colorado Dark Knight Rises.

This smelly pussy abandoned his baby mamma and her two kids when the gunfire erupted, ran like a bitch while he was spraying urine everywhere, got to his car and fled. When George Castanza ran from the kitchen fire in the famous Seinfeld episode, knocking over an old woman and shoving children out of his way, it was at least funny. But that was a TV show, and the danger present-a teeny tiny little fire-was obviously not a real danger at all. Rohrs, you get one chance in life to prove you’re a man. And you failed. Epically.

Any dude can splooge in a woman and knock her up. That doesn’t make you as man. Any queef can wear solid colors and a flat-brimmed ball cap and walk around like he’s a tough thug. That doesn’t make you a man. Douche. I say again. DOUCHE.

Jarell Brooks, you are a real man. Brooks saw Rohrs’s baby mama, Patricia Something, shielding her children. He got her to her feet and ushered her towards the exit. He took a round in his thigh for his troubles. She was hit with what I saw on the news as shrapnel. Rohrs, thank God, was unscathed.

Later, Patricia called Rohrs and they met at the hospital. Rohrs, a true action hero and chivalrous gentleman, saw she was alive and so overcome with emotion, decided to propose marriage. Right after he left her and the kids to die. Patricia, in what I can only hope were the long-lasting effects of shock and trauma, said yes. Patricia, don’t throw that fuckface’s anchor around your neck. I know you already let him lay pipe on you and had a kid with him, but enough with the self-depreciation. It’s not sexy at all. My advice is to go find a real cowboy or travel back in time and locate a Spartan and let one of them bone you. Knock you up. Cleanse your womb of Rohr’s filthy scent.

Hell, give it all to Brooks. That dude earned it.

But I digress. Rohrs, you’re a pussy. In my line of work I get lied to a lot. And after watching your softball interview with Piers “I’m a fucking lunatic” Morgan I know I was being lied to. You tried to sound like you were crying the whole time with your whines and hitches. There were no tears, not even a red eye. So full of shit.

You knew what you were doing and what you are; that’s why you told your story the way you did. You spoke almost in a third person, and I barely heard a pronoun. You removed yourself from the story as you told about what kind of girly bitch you are and how you couldn’t help it. You just ran. Your story was broken up into pieces. A defense mechanism for all the shame. You couldn’t tell it front to back because to do that would be to chronicle how cowardice dominates your every fiber of being.

Don’t have more kids and let a real man raise whatever ones you have. The world doesn’t need more of you.


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