"Do you think putz-boy had the smarts to create soap from liposuction fat? He wrote Joe's lily-livered, weak-bladdered imitation of gutless invertebrates. That's what. I am Joe's creativity, screaming to get out of pee-stained trousers and fear-soaked shirts."
"We aren't rehashing Eve Black an' White, are we?"
"And well we aren't. I'm not Eve's vagina. Neither am I dat pile-of-rugged-individual Galt. Holy Fucking Jesus Christ did that fucking eunuch artiste get it all wrong along with his prune-like creator Rand who bamboozled generations of pudgy, mamma's boys whose grandiose aspirations matched their fat asses and who's deeds are as spunky as Jello an' whipped cream. Wannabees in male drag. I am your man-meat talking. Hear me?" He paused as EE raised his pen to object but stopped and didn't speak.
"You goin-t say something, limpdick? Come on, I've heard the excuses before. All that PC, weak knee-ed horseshit. You get your jollies by writing rejections while I have women lining up to have my abortion. Call it shit like the shit it is. Don't call it what THEY want to hear. Spineless prick. Put some bloody frenzy on your whipped cream next time you jack the beanstalk or flip the bean, depending..."
"My minions adore and desire me." EE interrupted, flexing.
"You're tweeting like that twittified dork-wad who invented twitter, tweety-pie. You gotta create vicarious destruction, basement brawls, a soupcon of planned chaos and most definitely sport fucking for that big honker you rest those pince-nez on," he slapped his knee, yukking hard.
"Thrashing male ennui in 100,000 words?"
"Overthrow. Outmaneuver. Overwhelm. A Man's Guide To Being A Man, An Autobiography!" Tyler Durden's blue eyes twinkled, bewitching, a homoerotic come-hither, straight-arrow gaze of profligate lust that said beat-me, beat-me hard, I can take it, I'm a man.