Modest creature that I am, I’ve never been comfortable talking about myself directly; I like to let my work attest to my arrogant dipshittery. However, as this is my Manifesto, I must manifest. Feel free to skip to the actual content of the paper. I won’t get mad. I won’t even know.

Anyway, I should also probably come out and admit right off the bat that I’m one of those hicks from Ohio who moved out here and took the job at the Olive Garden that you natives could’ve had if not for your tattoos, mustaches, and general distaste for hygiene. Seriously, guys. The point where you start to smell like a fine cheese is not the point you become a well-rounded human. There are no connoisseurs of body odor, only victims. Also: I’m an Aquarius. I am not a fucking Pisces. And I will beat all of you at Trivial Pursuit: Lord of the Rings DVD edition.

Getting back to what would be the point (if I had one), my purpose at this institution known as the Rearguard is almost certainly the vaguest. Between me, Isaac, and all the other talented people on this staff, no one has a clue what I’m doing here. Neither does anyone have the guts to stop me from doing whatever it is I do. So for now, you’re all stuck with me. Cue maniacal laughter…now!

I’m very serious about not taking anything seriously, and I would advise you to treat me like I treat myself when confronting my body of work. And despite how that last sentence reads, it was no an invitation to give me a hand job.

Also, if you’d like, feel free to give me a hand job. That is an invitation.

Go Go Gadget Adam!