Dear Kevin Smith

Did you ever sit through "Comic Book Men" for a vain attempt to see a sneak peek of footage for next week's Walking Dead episode? That's only a fraction of the betrayal and loathing I feel towards you, the Baby Huey of directors.

There are so many reasons why I should love you.  You were like me.  We were chubby, geeky movie lovers from the Northeast.  We didn't go to film school, but chose to focus our love for film and make a movie on the cheap.  We cast it with friends and acquaintances, and filmed in places we knew well.  That's where we went our separate ways.  Your $30,000 movie was seen by the right people, and got picked up for distribution.  It made your name, and your career.  My $300 movie was so forgettable I think my cast even forgets they were in it.  I refused to wrack up the credit card debt you did, and I didn't know the right people that knew the right people like you did.  Most of all, my movie was nowhere near as good as Clerks.  You should have been my idol.  You were a guidepost on how to make it without going through their hoops.  Instead, you just turned into a fat, angry man who hates everything that made him famous. 

Whether it was success, too many fanboys up in your jock, or just too much Cheeto dust clogging your brain, you became a parody.  Everyone turns to you to find out what nerds and geeks think about something.  You became their posterboy for the awkward, except for the fact that you get to go home to your millions of dollars and fame.  Yet somehow, you have a chip on your shoulder.  You invited distributors to screen Red State, made them sit through the whole movie, then told them to go screw themselves, because you were funding the movie yourself.  You had a hissyfit when critics panned your movie CopOut even though if was a terrible, recycled hack of a movie.  You stated that critics were never allowed to see your movies again.  That's like saying chefs can never cook food again.  You also went about badmouthing the lead in that movie, even though he agreed to star in your giant ball of rubbish.  To prove you are magnificent to everyone, you send out a screener that was just a video of the eight minute standing ovation Clerks II got at Sundance.  All of this points to a petulant manchild that thinks he's more powerful than he is.

I think my dislike of you is even more simple than all of this.  You're like a walking...no...shuffling, waddling billboard for sloth.  You got so fat that they kicked you off an airplane.  You wear oversized hockey jerseys like they are the greatest fashion choice since muumuus.  You sit around, smoking weed and podcasting, and guest commenting on every show you can.  You want to make sure everyone sees you, because if they see you, they remember you are important.

You had everything I wanted, but it seems like it isn't enough for you.  It's like you think you are destined for even more.  The worst thing is, thanks to Tarantino, you aren't even the biggest prick of a director out there.  Even he hates himself.