Ralph Waldo Emerson is considered to be one of America’s greatest literary talents. Unfortunately, he did not write Walden. That cunt of hack-job scribbler Henry David Thoreau did and I’ll never get over it. The day he decided to walk his Irish-hating ass into that God-damned forest and pitch a tent wherever he damn well pleased was the day my great-great grandmother should have gotten her tubes tied so mah gran pappy woulda never been born and I would have never be subjected to the evil evils of Thoreau-isms. I mean, for fuck’s sake, nothing happens in the damned book! He walks into that bastard-child forest, pitches his pup tent, screws some Irishmen, steals all the world’s ice, and then writes page after page about an ant battle! A damn ant battle! Hasn’t he ever heard of YouTube? There are ant battles fucking everywhere! Your ant battle isn’t anything special, it’s just an isolated incident of nature some fucko happened to witness while wandering the woods on PCP. Imagine how Emerson would have done it…