Piers Morgan, Please Leave Us the Fuck Alone. Sincerely, America

Hey Piers. How’s London? You know, that place you live now because you lost your job at CNN because nobody in America wanted to hear you talk?

Enough small talk. Piers, buddy, earlier today you tweeted this:

After you ran Larry King’s show into the ground, you took a position as a columnist at the Daily Mail, which—ok, I guess food and custom hats to fit your enormous head aren’t free. You’ve been doing this a lot lately—posting teasers for your upcoming columns, I assume in hopes of drumming up attention and traffic for whatever grab at relevancy you’re going to try your hand at this week.

Now, I have not read this piece on Mike Brown and police shootings and I don’t plan to, because I have an idea of what’s coming. A week ago you wrote a column arguing that black Americans should take it upon themselves to stop using “the N-word” if they don’t want white people using it. Basically: if you stop saying “the N-word” then white people will stop treating you like one.

Novel idea, Piers! Groundbreaking. Truly. But that’s not exactly how racism works. You mentioned Martin Luther King and the fact that he probably didn’t use the word, but failed to note that he was gunned down anyway. Funny how racism isn’t just about semantics.

What I find so delightfully curious is the fact that you, a British white man, think that anyone gives a hot buttered fuck about your opinions on race issues in America.

When your show was canceled, you attributed its failure to the fact that most American do not care what you think. You told the New York Times:

“Look, I am a British guy debating American cultural issues, including guns, which has been very polarizing, and there is no doubt that there are many in the audience who are tired of me banging on about it,”

And by “many in the audience” I assume you meant “most of your audience.” All xx of them.

This is not to say that a non-American cannot or should not weigh in on issues in this country, but you certainly shouldn’t. You’re not a trusted or popular voice in America. Your opinions hold no weight. If I rolled up to say, Greece, and started lecturing them on whatever bullshit popped into my head, not only would I expect them to look at me funny, I hope they would. Because what do I know and who asked me? (Try saying that to yourself three times before you sit down to write anything—a column, a tweet, a grocery list—any damn thing.)

You’re a funny man, Piers. You have this deeply stupid belief that any response at all to your fuckery is somehow proof that your opinion matters.

Following that “N-word” article, you spent the rest of the day responding to what seemed like every single person who had something negative to say about it—including me. (I would like to point out that I didn’t have tag you in that tweet, meaning that you must have been conducting a search of your name specifically to lob petulant, man-baby responses.)

You pretty much kept saying over and over: If you guys don’t care what I think, then why are you talking about it? WE’RE TALKING ABOUT IT BECAUSE WE’RE TRYING TO GET YOU TO SHUT THE HELL UP.

Responding to your bullshit does not require some sort of deep concern for or interest in you ideas. There just aren’t that many other ways to tell someone to shut the fuck up without telling them to shut the fuck up. We tried ignoring you the first time around and yet, here we are.

I’m not sure how to make it any clearer to you that we, as Americans, don’t want you no mo’. We told you so last week. Nobody watched your show. There was that White House petition to deport you that garnered a whopping 109,334 signatures—enough to prompt an official White House response. Bruh, we ain’t fucking with you like that.

I mean this sincerely when I say that I would one day like to swim in the sea of rich white man arrogance and entitlement that you seem to pull your life source from. Just let me tip my big toe into that warm water and feel what it’s like to truly believe that my opinion is relevant, even when I’ve been told repeatedly by the exact people that I’m speaking to that it’s not

I want to taste that intoxicating nectar that lulls me into a state where even when I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, it seems smart to continue talking. Piers, tell me, does it taste like butter?

P.S. Go away forever.

Image via AP.