If you didn't already notice, this week is "beef" week on the Deuce; a week where any outstanding "beefs" can be discussed in an open and frank forum (so long as I am the only member of said forum). Some would say that the existence of the Deuce Goose is defined by my beef with others, to those people I say: "eat a dick". Fucking Discovery channel has Shark Week and what the fuck else does the Discovery Channel have on it other than sharks and sharks fucking? Sheesh. Anyway, in the spirit of Beef Week I've decided to publish this letter from ex-New York Post gossip columnist Ian Spiegelman to magazine writer Doug Dechert. Spiegelman obviously has some beef with Dechert and he lets Dechert know it in the kind of way I wish I could let everyone know about my beef with them. In fact, when you're reading the following letter, replace "Doug" with "virtually every cocksucker I see". Enjoy.

Doug,

You picked the wrong boy to fuck with, you pussy. I am not like anyone you've come up against and I don't consider there to be any rules in this. I break aging trust fund pussies like you as a matter of course. If you think you can bring it, then bring it, faggot. Because I know that in my world you're nothing but a two-bit lame. Do you know what a lame is, Doug? A lame is an also-ran, a lame is the excuse for the person he would have been if he wasn't so fucking weak, so completely pathetic.

You 're a lame and a pussy, Doug. And you should know better than to try and wage war on me. I'm better, stronger and smarter than you, you little Nancy. If I wanted to take your girl out, I would. You have nothing I can't take away from you, you non-man. Doug, you little tiny fairy, you arrested boy, I will break your back over my knee in the press and I will push your face inside-out in private or public. You've crossed a line that you are currently too insane to see that you've crossed. But I am giving you this one freeby:

Mention my name anywhere, ever, again, and we're going to find out two things: First, whose word means anything anymore in this town. Second, how many times I can slam my fist into your face before someone pulls me off you. Now I know you'll try and get a restraining order against me, you suit-happy little pussy. After all, you live in your mother's apartment. And that's fine, go ahead. I just want you to know who you picked a problem with, pussy. You picked a fight with someone who doesn't sleep until he's paid it back, you limp little woman. Now you wait for it,

Best,
Ian

Incredible, no? By the way, a spineless cunt from the Daily News ratted on Ian about this letter and got him fired, you don't need me to tell you what a shame that is.

Speaking of beef, this fuck stick who apparently works on the same floor of our office building as me wants some beef for himself. Check this shit out. The facilities in our office building are a two room affair; the first room contains a couple of vanities while the second room contains a couple of urinals and a couple of stalls. On a side note, one of the stalls is of the handicapped variety and is the only stall I use since I need that extra room for my Krav Maga stretches and deep breathing exercises. But this isn't one of my all too frequent stories involving my body humiliating me; this is about the beef this cocksucker wants with me.
So I roll into the facilities last week; in the outer room I followed protocol and stomped my feet so that anyone perched on a growler could silence himself and avoid any potential flatulatory embarrassment. Opening the second door I immediately popped a squat and looked under the stall doors to make sure no one was rolling a deuce. If someone is using one of the stalls I politely walk away and find another restroom. No man should ever roll into a restroom, let alone a stall, when another man is trying to take care of his business, all that foulness is an extremely private affair. Looking under the stalls, I saw no feet so it was appropriate for me to use one of the urinals.
Stepping up to the urinal I began relaxing myself by pretending my penis was one of those furry little aliens from Flight of the Navigator. Before I managed to get to the speaking parts I heard the outer door open, instantly followed by the inner door. Whoever this jimmy was he didn't follow the aforementioned feet stomping protocol. While I was a little flustered by this flagrant disregard for procedure my instincts took over and I readied myself for urinating next to another dude by straitening my back, broadening my shoulders, and staring strait ahead into the tile like a god damn gentleman. Soon, Mr. Weinis began doing his business and everything was going as well as can be expected when you're standing inches from another dude with your dick in your hand. Then I realized something was amiss. Still staring strait ahead, as per protocol, I used my peripheries to get a sense of what was going on next to me. The asshole was staring at me! Shocked, I sucked in a little too much air and had to cough but I used the moment to inch a bit further away. It was a terrifying ordeal, this cocksucker was actually staring at me and not just a brief head turn to see who I was stare, it was a full on eyes locked to my profile while he fetched his penis and began peeing stare. I broke out into a sweat, I couldn't believe this was happening, the abomination... the insult! I mean, at a fucking football or baseball stadium when there's 50 dudes, many of dubious merit, wandering around with their dicks out pissing into a community trough it's one thing, but at my fucking place of business I expect some fucking manners and decency and not to be fucking pushed on by some fucking nerd. In the sumo ring of life this asshole had me near the circle and my center of gravity was way off, I was forced to abort the pee. Now, for the droves of women out there who religiously read the Deuce Goose I'm not sure if it stings like a mother fucker when you prematurely stop peeing but, for reference, with a dude it's like a couple of drunken hornets flying around inside your apple bag. My whole body shook from the sharp, though thankfully brief, pain before I could compose myself and face my opponent. His face was devoid of expression and besides his dead eyes there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him at all save for his hair which was parted with razor accuracy and glued to his scalp and his complete disregard for protocol and decency. "Hello", said the nerd as he finally turned and faced forward. I felt a sprinkle of pee hit my leg. "Shit!" I thought, "I forgot to fucking shake!" It was as if the nerd had peed on me himself. Furious, I stalked out of the restroom. This cocksucker caught me off guard and that shit won't happen again, I've just never been pushed on at my office before (except for those run-ins with security [fist shaking]). This fool needs two gats to go to sleep now 'cause he's got beef and he's going to be picking his teeth out of my crap before long*.

*aclubdreadthankyou

It has come to my attention that some people don't quite understand what I meant when I asked Mustache if he wanted "beef" with me on the day we met. In the interests of full disclosure, let me define "beef" for you as per Christopher Wallace:

"What's beef? Beef is when you need two gats to go to sleep
Beef is when your moms ain't safe up in the streets
Beef is when I see you
Guaranteed to be an ICU, one more time
What's beef? Beef is when you make your enemies start your Jeep
Beef is when you roll no less than thirty deep
Beef is when I see you
Guaranteed to be an ICU, check it"

Obviously, Mustache doesn't realistically want any beef with me. I'll have that fool starting my Jeep in no time. Book it.