The Rude Pundit tells it as it is. He fearlessly shines a light into the darkest corners of any dilapidated, crumbling edifice and looks for the boogeymen. And, upon finding said boogeyman, the Rude Pundit gives him the finger. The Rude Pundit doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about him. The Rude Pundit is not child friendly – in fact he so rude that he is almost the boogeyman of rudeness. The Rude Pundit is not afraid of anything or anyone, least of all the Bloogeyman.
In fact, let’s say he was to come home late at night to find his front door slightly ajar - something is in his house. Most people, trembling, would slowly creak open the door and peer in horror at it – shocked, mortified by fear. They would fall to their knees and beg and pray for it to have mercy. They would shake and sweat in agony, and, if they were able to get up the nerve, they would turn and run – screaming into the darkness for someone to save them. Were the Rude Pundit to peer inside and see the Bloogeyman he would not recoil back in terror as most would do. No, he would say, “What the hell are you doing in my house? And why are you wearing my pants?!?”, as he slowly reaches for a rusty iron pipe with which to beat the Bloogeyman senseless.
Now, the Rude Pundit is one vulgar mofo. I’m not talking about ‘ol boys down at the bar having a beer after work’ vulgar, I’m talking about ‘cross-dressing, heroin-addicted sailor on a one-way trip to hell’ vulgar. I mean really, you probably should not go to the Rude Pundit if you think ‘mofo’ is a bad word. Hell, you damn well better run your ass away if you think I was even the least bit vulgar in this sentence. Kids, that means if you are under 21, do not go to the Rude Pundit for advice (public service announcement – think of the children!). That said, I’m still going to get plenty of grief for recommending the Rude Pundit, but hell, we all have at least one crazy, cross-dressing uncle who lives in the attic and we still visit him, right?
Of course, it is quite cathartic to read what the Rude One has to say about something so infuriating that every time you think about it you feel the warm bile well up in your throat (Al Gonzo, anyone?). Oh, the string of expletives you will want to shout – the fury with which you will want to tear at your eyes for seeing such a thing. But the Rude One understands your pain – for every thorn that is thrust into your skin the Rude One writes painful poetry. Yes, it is painfully vulgar poetry, but it is poetry from the heart. For that reason the Bloogeyman recommends The Rude Pundit.