Thought Catalog: Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here, bro?
McSweeney’s: Seeing the new Zooey Deschanel film. Ah, if only I could spend (five hundred) days of summer with her.
Thought Catalog: Shouldn’t you be at an indie cinema in San Fran watching The Last Waltz or something?
McSweeney’s: Best concert film ever. Incidentally, I read your article you posted recently questioning whether Spice World was a great movie or the greatest movie? It was truly profound.
Thought Catalog: Incidentally, I fucked your mom.
McSweeney’s: Apologies. I didn’t mean to offend. My sarcasm and haughty literary style is a result of extreme insecurity regarding my intellectual abilities.
Thought Catalog: You’re so pedantic! Ugh. Srsly, if you weren’t entirely made up of first-person narratives from the perspective of inanimate objects, you might acquire a larger readership. Like, who cares about a relationship between a dying ficus and its pretentious owner?
McSweeney’s: Excuse me. I don’t want “fans,” I only want the highest-ranking literati to revere my pithy “conceptual humor.” Teenagers and undergraduates need not browse. In other words, I am more Yo-Yo Ma than Justin Bieber.
Thought Catalog: What are you saying?
McSweeney’s: Look, I should go. The film is about to begin.
Thought Catalog: You sayin’ that Michael Chabon wouldn’t read me?
McSweeney’s: I would hope not.
Thought Catalog: I’m going to fucking lay your ass down one time, McSweeney’s.
McSweeney’s: You and what army?
A flash of light. Smoke disseminates. Through the heavenly glow, Ryan O’Connell, Dan Hoffman, Kat George, and Brandon Scott Gorrell appear. Leigh Alexander stands in the background timidly.
Thought Catalog: Don’t make me tweet about this.
From the sky and somehow through the roof of the movie theatre, Dave Eggers, Michael Chabon, Teddy Wayne, and Ben Greenman fearlessly drop in on parachutes. After a triumphant moment, Jesse Eisenberg suddenly crashes to the ground hard, unable to properly maneuver his parachute for a smooth landing. He waves awkwardly and limps over to the battleground.
Thought Catalog: Oh, you had to bring Mark Zuckerberg! Of course, ya douche. LOLZ.
McSweeney’s: His name is Jesse Eisenberg. He is a writer. He is a post gender normative man, if you did not know.
Thought Catalog: He was in Adventureland. Blarg. Shit sucked my balls. He is like the unfunny version of Michael Cera!
McSweeney’s: You better watch your mouth, Thought Catalog. My colleague Dave Eggers is a staggering genius like Will Hunting. He street fights, too!
Thought Catalog: Yo, check it, my homey, Ryan O’Connell, just thought of another list to catalog!
McSweeney’s: Seven Reasons Why I Love Christina Aguilera and Boys?
Thought Catalog: Four Reasons Why Thought Catalog Owns McSweeney’s: 1) “You Should Date An Illiterate Girl” wrecked the “Comic Sans Monologue” in Facebook shares; 2) I am nobrow and proud; no superiority complexes here; 3) I’m like a self-help college literature platform; and, 4) My dick is bigger than yours.
McSweeney’s: I will not reduce myself to discharging ad hominem attacks. I have honor.
Thought Catalog: Oh, okay. Well, then I’ll just kick your ass. LOLZ!
TC launches a dirty punch into McSweeney’s gut. Shit is going down. McSweeney’s folds to the sticky floor like a limp appendage.
Ryan O’Connell and Michael Chabon, to everyone’s surprise, engage in highly skilled martial artistry. Ryan quotes Carrie Bradshaw trying to fake out Michael. A roundhouse kick drops O’Connell to the ground. Hysterical, melodramatic yelps ensue.
The rest of the opposing crews dance in a brilliantly choreographed routine a la West Side Story. Snapping is involved.
Leigh Alexander and Jesse Eisenberg look on from a distance, shrugging their shoulders in that trademark bluff of hipster indifference.
When it seems as though the fight can’t get any more worthy of print, The New Yorker blasts through the front door with an M-16 that would make Tony Montana smile. Shots ring out. BAM. BAM. BAM.
Everyone dies. Agony. Screams. Final gasps. It’s horrific. Ben Greenman pens his last musical in graph form detailing the events before his hand finally slaps the bucket.
The New Yorker marches over to the concession stand, stamping on McSweeney’s and Thought Catalog’s lifeless bodies. The New Yorker grabs a bag of Nibs and flings his M-16 on his back.
The New Yorker: Tally-ho, motherfuckers.
– Louie Quindeis