Photo: The Library of Congress/Office of War Information Photograph Collection

Author’s Note: This post was originally written in a state of residual intoxication on the morning of Saturday, June 13, 2015, shortly after a former Gawker editor promoted me to working nights—but failed to inform me that I had the weekend off. For this discourtesy I threatened him with bodily harm. Fortunately, a more level-headed co-worker (Brendan) talked me out of publishing the post. Unfortunately, the editor in question (along with the rest of the Gawker staff) later found and read the draft. Enjoy!

Today, for the first time in longer than I’m happy to admit, I woke up at the house of a charming young woman. I left sooner than I wished to, believing I had to work today.

I did not have to work today.

Gawker editor [REDACTED] knew this fact—presumably having made the decision himself—and out of either negligence or gross disregard did not tell me.

Now we must fight.

Contrary to popular perception, a fight between adult men is wholly unlike a schoolyard scrap. It is a struggle of life and death. This post formally declares my readiness to kill or be killed by Gawker editor [REDACTED].

Many U.S. states have laws that criminalize public combat, even if engaged in willingly. Authorities in the state of Washington, however, have defended the right of citizens to beat the fuck out of other citizens (such as [REDACTED]) if consent is provided.

I believe it is only fair that [REDACTED] meet me at a venue of his choice in the state of Washington and have his ass handed to him. It is possible—although unlikely—that my ass may be handed to me instead.

This kind of uncertainty is what makes life exciting and worth living, a thought that will surely provide [REDACTED] with some measure of solace as I’m slamming my fist into his fucking face.

The decision, however, is ultimately his. Fight me, [REDACTED]. You know it is the just and honest and frankly civilized thing to do.