Butgloom is my alter-ego. The coarser version of myself who drinks beer and talks about golf, banking, and which cuts of beef make the best chili. You don’t want to meet that guy. I know I have had a “Mr. Hyde” kind of night when I wake up and my underwear is in the trashcan.
Given the death of Prince today, it’s important to remember that you never have more freedom to…

My dear Gutbloom,

I don’t think you overshared at all. In fact, your post reached critical mass, in my estimation, only when you typed the final phrase, “underwear is in the trashcan.” The image forces your public to feel fully, as you no doubt have, the horror of being in the grasp of the devilish “Mr. Hyde/Butgloom.” It’s not the job of the writer to whitewash the sorts of things that occur in the crucible where beer, golf, banking, and chili intersect— the most chilling combination of elements ever conceived by man or monster. Rather, the artist who is true to his craft must do just as you’ve done and refuse to avert his gaze when confronted by the moment when all hope for one’s underpants has been abandoned and the garment relegated to the trash heap of history. (Though one wonders: Might a good dose of bleach and heavy laundering have somewhat ameliorated the situation? But no — who am I to question the man who was fully in the arena, whose decision was made in the heat of battle?)

Yours is not the work of a hack, but of a writer in full control of his powers. And that bit about the underwear made me laugh out loud.