This is Angry Tablecloth, and I have important things to say, but there’s one issue I thought about last night that takes priority. I’m not going to start with, “This is Angry Tablecloth,” anymore. So I thought I’d take out the trash, and get it out of my system, right here, right now. If you like the way I introduce myself, you’ll be glad to see it gone after this.
This is Angry Tablecloth. Give me a pillow to rest my head, a table to eat my food, and a person to share them with, and my trinity is complete. Deny me this, and I will command something more. No, prison does not count.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and I am secretly J.K. Rowling. I’m here to demonstrate how someone can go from unknown pseudonym to world famous author, through talent and determination, without any publicity, using this very basic, very free site. I’m really not, but now there are at least two diehard Harry Potter fans who will read my every word, just in case it one day turns out to be true.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and I’m just waiting for the day I become rich and famous, so I can tell all my fans I don’t need them, and rap about how shitty everyone else’s life is, because they’re not me.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and I have some really crazy things to say when I’m eighty.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and some of the things I say are actually true, which is scary, no matter how little the amount.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and I’m still alive, somehow.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and I once actually thought to myself, “I’m a maniac. I’m a moron,” and it was not as long ago as I would like it to be.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and if you’ve read most of my posts, this name now haunts the dreams you cannot remember.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and writing this name this many times is somehow making me hungry.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and I once flipped over the dinner table at Thanksgiving, ruining the turkey my mother spent all day cooking. There she was in the corner, sobbing away, chunks of carrots, and gravy splattered all over her hair and face, as if someone had just walked in front of her and stepped on a land mine. And there was my father, irately shouting with the force of a man trying to flip the table right-side-up, using only his vocal chords. Later that night, when the dust had settled, I took the tablecloth that was used earlier, and fashioned it into a cape and cowl, that I now dawn as the vigilante hero, Angry Tablecloth! I fight crime, with a rebellious, no holds barred attitude that the ladies love, because I am still haunted by memories of that fateful, tragic day.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and now I’m just showing off.
This is Angry Tablecloth telling you to buy Angry Tablecloth brand tablecloths. The only one with the Angry Tablecloth seal of approval.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and I never want to hear the phrase, “little spoon”, ever again.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and my name would be a hashtag, if I were smart enough to use Twitter. I don’t even know enough to know if that statement is accurate. What is a hashtag, exactly?
This is Angry Tablecloth, and the first season of Simpsons is on in the background… it’s the RV episode! Sweet! A classic.
This is Angry Tablecloth, and I am sick of hearing correct statements used incorrectly all the damn time, but I cannot wait for the day my words become so popular that they are misinterpreted by others, all over the world, causing my ideas to become what I despise.
I’ll stop now.
“That was Angry Tablecloth, and that was insane.”
“That was Angry Tablecloth, and that was a waste of three minutes.”
Alright, alright. I’m done. I’m done.