Okay, I’m back for the attack, Dokken-style. It’s time to explain the beginnings of Angry John Sellers. (As any comic-book nut will tell you, this is the obligatory origin story.) Was I formed in a vat of trans-fatty acid by a balding German chemist cast out of the scientific community for having not only questionable morals but also bad breath? Nein. Am I made up of snips and snails and puppy-dog tails? Nope, although you wouldn’t know it to look at me. Instead, I got here the old-fashioned way: I complained about everything to everyone until finally, in December of 1999, an aspiring comedienne planted the big one on me.

I remember the day vividly. We were getting paid obscene amounts of cash by a television game show to dash off questions of increasing inanity and to sit around trying to make ourselves feel as if this mattered to anyone. A few of my fellow trivia squirrels got focused on the nut that is the Writer’s Guild and set out to convince the union to accept our staff into its ranks, because this would mean slightly better pay as well as a nifty benefits package, which included health insurance and a 401K plan. There were months of discussions about this. One day midway through this cycle, I questioned the validity of my friend Mr. T’s claim that a 401K—essentially free money—was beneficial. “What good would it do me?” I asked. “I don’t plan on living past 65.” Mr. T laughed maniacally as the quote caromed around the office like a Super Ball. The aspiring comedienne, already in a love-hate relationship with my excessively pessemistic view of life, seized the moment. “Sellers,” she said, “you’re so angry that I’m going to call you Angry John Sellers.” And she did quite often after that.


Still no damn hot water.