In our March 14th Media Farm column, we turned one or two heads by dissing our own ex-writer, David Thorpe, the Tim-and-Eric looking Cali dipshit who used to do our excellent “Burn Unit” column but now writes the practically identical but TOTALLY fucking lame “Big Hurt” for the competition.

Whining about our lost love—a guy nobody even cares about—may have seemed petty, even pathetic. It was. But we did it for good reason: David Thorpe has gone soft.

That first anti-Thorpe potshot was intentionally super lame, not because we aren’t funny and can’t write, but because we were being nice. Enough of that half-assed shit. We owe it to ourselves as a cutting-edge critical institution to publicly take his balls to task. Let’s burn this fucker to the ground.

“Diesel Dave” used to delight our hep twenty-something demographic with ripping zings about Kid Rock, but now he writes similar, flaccid Kid Rock zings like a wine-sipping pussy. We’ve sent him a few late-night drunk emails begging him to change his ways, but he clearly sucks too totally much to take our advice.

Check out this example, man. Here’s something wickedly hilarious David Thorpe wrote for us in January of 2008:

Panic At The Disco (notice the lack of an exclamation point) have now dropped the exclamation point (did you, as I instructed, dutifully apprehend the lack of an exclamation point?). Great, fellas, I hereby grant you all honorary doctorates in the English language from the University of Who-Gives-a-Fuck.

And now, for comparison, is a quote from Thorpe’s “Big Hurt” column from March 5th of this year:

Boy, they should do something about Coldplay! I still don’t like them. How about this, fellas: let’s send Coldplay to go out and play—in the cold! Maybe they’ll catch the sniffles! Ha! Unless Gwyneth Paltrow pins some mittens to the singer guy’s shirt! But seriously, playing in the cold is dangerous during flu season.

[Editor, please put this in huge orange letters so everyone knows it’s a flamin’-hot zinger.]

Notice how he sounds like he is unfunny, and furthermore is a pussy who isn’t cool?

[OK, end big orange letters now.]

Well, here’s what sucks about David Thorpe now that didn’t suck about David Thorpe four years ago: he’s whoring for the other guys. You know, that other paper. The “PEENIX,” as we call it when we’re of a mood for a saucy chortle. He’s in a big downy bed with those Pulitzer-polishing stuffed shirts, with their fork-and-knife pretensions and their storebought haircuts. Maybe they’re even paying him. But is he happy? Does he wake up every week with the satisfaction of knowing he works for Boston’s grimiest, most in-yer-fucking-face underground rag? No!

To the casual reader, the Dig and the Other Paper might not seem so different. We both constantly rotate a bunch of the same writers, we both cover a lot of the same shit. And, like AV dweebs mad-dogging yearbook dweebs in the hall, we both fucking hate each other for reasons that totally exist. But there’s one major difference, kids.

We, us, the Mother Fucking Dig, we’ve got one thing Thorpe’s new pimps don’t: we’ve got TUDE.

We’ve got hella fresh tude. We’ve got tude like Taz and Chester Cheetah blazing a bomb-ass clove in the illest men’s room at the most rock and roll junior high school in town. The other guys are a Cadillac with a banana in its tailpipe, but we’re a BMX with a Garbage Pail Kid in the spokes.

That’s tude, brother. And you know where that surplus tude comes from? Better handjob ads.

Those little Richie Rich assholes at the Other Place might have big bucks, but our handjob ads SMOKE those fools when it comes to pure underground dick cred. Our jobs are the sickest by far: not too long, not too clean, consistently on point. Even if everything else is awfully fucking similar on a week-to-week basis, you can count on the Dig to rock your world with the grodiest back page hogcranker you’ve ever called in.

We can only assume Thorpe, laboring under inferior handjobs for years now, has lost all of his once-famous verve.

It didn’t have to be this way. If he hadn’t been seduced away by the competition’s flashy sales pitch about company cars and luncheons with the president and occasional checks in the mail, he could still be down here in the trenches, rolling with the bad dawgz. But, no. We don’t want him back, because he isn’t funny anymore. We run a pretty tight ship around here hilaritywise and we wouldn’t want some has-been hack gumming up our tudepump with his lameo “PEENIX” flavored garbage joints.

[Hey, Editor—do we still have one? Let’s get some big orange letters again for this part.]

We just want him to know he sucks now. So, Thorpe, if you’re listening: later on, pussy, we’ve got a rad demographic to serve.

[Now let’s do a thing with the orange letters so it looks like a dust cloud from a bitchin’ motorcycle vrooming away.]



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