It’s 4:25 am on Saturday morning. I am purposely typing this story in the first-person in an email that I will soon send - complete with typos and misspellings - to Al Uthman. Why? Because I told him I’d do it by Friday and I just realized I passed my own self-inflicted deadline and have too much stuff to do this weekend to put it off another second.

But you know what... maybe it would be wise to just wait until I am more coherent because this is going to turn into some long stream-of-consciousness babble that might have found its way into The BEAST back when I was editor, before the whole Celebrity Justice thing and Taibbi being on the Daily Show and in Rolling Stone and ZWAN being GAY. Wait, ZWAN was GAY before I was the editor.

Yeah I was the editor. Executive editor, in fact, and I even fired someone. The big cheese, the head honcho, the alpha, the proverbial man. In BEAST-world, the editor is even more in charge of things than the publisher. It’s a very hard job, there is little to no pay, and the little bit of reward you get in exchange for the stress of being the editor of a paper like The BEAST is that you can brag about being the editor. So please, bear with me as I relive my glory days.

The paper is truly in more capable hands now and I’d like to write a story for the 100th issue but I am not getting paid for it and I am not even assured that it will be printed, so instead of an article I’m just going to write this email to Al that he can run in the paper in case he needs to fill up room because he was expecting my contribution.

I don’t know... the BEAST has a very interesting history and there are a million great stories about it. I hope someone does a better job of documenting that than I am doing, but I guess I’m just not motivated by the sheer fun of it all anymore.

And, without meaning to, I think I just fully illustrated what issues 20-something to 30-something were like. Less politics and rationality, more nipples and ghosts and nonsense. It was fun while it lasted, but a political satire paper without the politics has a very limited audience to market to. Sure... I’m a failure, but as usual I didn’t fail enough to feel bad about it. I mean, shit, it was six issues. Biweekly! That’s like, forever in dog years.

Please consider my retrospective objective accomplished.... I do.