thegreatestshowpossible:

I am in a fantasy baseball league. There is both an Eric and an Erikk in our league. They have never met. Shit got real today. Eric decided to jokingly make an enemy by sending the below email.

I’m taking immediate opportunity to call out Erikk as my team’s rival.  His unconscionable spelling of the name obviously comes from some Nordic tradition, and as an Irishman I am obligated to hate him.  The traditional name “Eric” has a strong, long-standing tradition and has graced important national and cultural leaders, including:

• Eric Cartman
• Eric Foreman
• (Prince) Eric From the Little Mermaid
• Eric Clapton

To name a few.

See you on the [battle]field.

-EriC

He had no idea what he was getting into. Three hours later his broadside was answered. 

Eric ———- you god damned insidious jackal, you wasteland of a man,

I relish your bald act of out-calling, and I cackle at your puny attempt to scour that rank corpse-filled dungeon you call your mind in service of trying to make your pathetic point, which is really just plying the most whorish of lipstick upon the pig of your Irish bullshit. I accept my position as your rival—and with such ease—if only to begin the work of what will heretofore be a lifelong project: tearing down the flimsy scaffold of whatever you might psychotically hold up as “a strong, long-standing tradition.”

And look what utter human rot you offer in defense of your foppish first name! Those who are unfortunate enough to call themselves by the soft-hearted, effete, and castrated homophone of my own name! Eric Cartman? The cultural equivalent of a whoopie cushion? Eric Foreman?! The hopelessly overwrought travesty of both the dramatic and medical arts, the affirmative action hack that stains the name of Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital? Or shall we speak of “Prince” Eric, the cocksure 1%-er whose arrogance is overshadowed only by his perverted, soul-consuming sexual proclivity—ichtyophilia! 

And lastly, you’ve the gall to invoke the name of Eric Clapton… whose character is basically unassailable and I’ll give you the point there.

But, Eric ———, you’re on the wrong side of things. You go relax in the cushioned hammock of that C with which your name finishes. Have a light nap, perhaps finally let slip the plaintive sobs you’ve been holding in for some time. But know this: when the intensity of your sniffles heightens to the quick staccato of a spoiled toddler, and you look ever so briefly away to find a tissue, I will be there, swooping down upon you with the fury of all my Nordic ancestors, rising out of the ocean like the exaggerated elephantine Ursula of Prince Eric’s sweatiest nightmares, and down upon your garden—God, your ————— garden; could your name be any faker?—I will thrash, brandishing my two sharp k’s as dueling tridents of pain, and as soon as you first glimpse light from their metallic glean, you will think: “Oh, those k’s don’t look so bad, he won’t be able to hurt me, they’re so small!” But then you will realize that my weapon-k’s have been grossly underestimated in their distorted reflection—my ferocity concealed by the foolhardy optics in your clownishly concave C, and your life’s last thought will be this: “All my life has been wasted in this funhouse mirror full of deception and lies! Verily, Erikk was right! ERIKK WAS RIGHT!”

Anyway, good to meet you man, thanks for getting in touch!



ERIKK