A Brief History of THE SHOCKER’s Liberator and Benefactor, Tommy Seabass
As you may have read last week, we at THE SHOCKER are in open rebellion against the shitboy pizza-slinger Papa John and Paul Ryan, the Papa’s prime ally and inveterate-douchebag Speaker of the House.
(See the glee with which we disparage his name and the gratuitous profanity we surround it with?! Those shitfaced cockblasters! Piss-drinking, gizzard-sodomizing fuckpoles! Ballzangers! Dickcheese-builders! OK, fine, fine, you get the point, but it’s fun.)
Anyway, this rebellion could’ve been quashed under the health-insurance-denying heel of the Papa. But we’ve been able to fight back against the dismal tides of tomato sauce and false Parmesan thanks to the financial, spiritual, military, emotional and…well, occasionally sexual largesse of one man: Tommy Seabass.
Seabass is the future. Seabass represents kindness, progressiveness, wokeness and inclusion. Seabass works to ensure that all spaces are safe spaces. Seabass is operating around the clock to free us from the faux-Italian yoke of the Papa and his John-Galt-cock-manipulating, socialism-hating cheesehead tooldog.
Let’s get acquainted:
Now, I hear what you’re saying: “Liam, stop lying to us. Liam, that’s a picture of John Slattery from a Mad Men promotional photoshoot, circa the first part of season 7. Liam, The Shocker will never escape the Papa.”
You’re all wrong, though, you relentlessly stupid frog-buttholes. Tommy Seabass is known for his resemblance to John Slattery, and much like the character Slattery famously played in the later seasons he enjoys both oysters and sex with ladies of a certain (older) age, but he is in fact himself. Tommy Seabass. Get it straight.
…OK, honestly, we don’t know what Mr. Seabass looks like. None of us have ever met him. But the money keeps arriving in self-addressed stamped envelopes, along with letters that express his sympathy for our cause in no uncertain terms. (Beautiful language, really, influenced as much by Nabokov as Arundhati Roy.) Crates of weapons and snacks have also arrived at The Shocker offices bearing his initials. And he always pays for all the drinks.
Tommy Seabass had his born day in 1949. An unquestioned patriot, he served in Vietnam at the tender age of 18 and survived the horrific battles of the Tet Offensive. Before wartime he’d felt a kinship with classic big-tent liberal ideas and often stole money from the wallet of his father, shipping magnate Saul Seabass, and sent it in anonymous envelopes to the NAACP and SCLC. Saul sometimes whooped his son’s ass for this, but Tommy remained undeterred. The chaos he’d seen overseas only bolstered his commitment to progressive causes.
Like all of us, Seabass had some dark fucking periods. He got like way into postpunk in the early 1980s and it led to heavy cocaine use, marathon drinking contests with Factory Records founder Tony Wilson, cruelly pantsing Sid Vicious onstage as if the poor smack-addled fuck didn’t have enough problems as it was, exchanges of small-arms fire with former members of the Baader-Meinhof gang on the streets of Munich…you know. Usual trouble. He cleaned up everything but the drink by 1996, took a calculated gamble by investing $50 million won from George Clooney at a strip poker game in Steve Jobs’ iMac project, and, well, his fortune was secured. (That plus a massive inheritance from his atrocious father and proceeds from the sale of Seabass Shipping Co. to Maersk.)
Seabass is a regular donor to the Southern Poverty Law Center, American Civil Liberties Union, Democratic Socialists of America and various other noble organizations. He cannot always declare his support in press conferences or Twitter dispatches, but it’s there. This, of course, is something he needs to fix in this new era — our protests must be loud, proud and outspoken— but, as an older fellow, he is learning.
The Shocker first learned Seabass had taken an interest in our operation during a night of drinking — as you might expect. Thomas Awful (pictured on the right in his signature non-fascist Milwaukee Bucks hat) met yours truly for an editorial conference — an exchange of ideas, despairing monologues, stories of discomfiting sexual encounters and the night’s basketball scores.
When we were forced to pay for the substances we’d used to poison our bodies (under protest), we found that the bill had been taken care of. Assuming this was some sort of POS terminal error, the waitress left for a while and returned to say that it could not be undone — the bill was paid, by a man named Thomas Seabass.
Our waitress said, “I’d take this gift while it’s yours, folks,” or something to that effect. We did not question her wisdom. (The moments in which you should question your servers are rare.)
Later that night, the entire Shocker staff received a mass text from a blocked number. It read: “Strange, sex-dysfunctional Shockfolk — I, Tommy Seabass, am with you. Look to your mailboxes for funds and weaponry, and fear Midwestern fake-pizza tomfoolery no more.”
