So A Super-Angel Tries To Have A Meeting In A Bar…

By now you’ve probably read TechCrunch honcho Michael Arrington’s personal account of blowing the lid off a “secret cabal of Super-Investors colluding to rule Silicon Valley” (and it you haven’t, you should probably jack your strat). But what you didn’t realize is: that’s just his side of the story. See, I was at Bin 38’s back-room Godfather-like conference table with the rest of my VC/Angel/tech-leader friends, just talking about my new startup ideas and stuff the Scobelizer’s been Tweeting this week, when we were rudely interrupted by an uninvited guest whose own actions, as you will soon see, were less than scrupulous. 

So we’d just been decanting a very nice bottle of Dominus Estate (Napa Valley, 2002), which we were told would pair nicely with the Truffled Burrata and Tuna Crudo with Smoked Foie Gras apps we ordered, when suddenly Arrington stumbles in, crazy-eyed, smelling of Subway sandwiches and keyboard cleaner, then starts babbling about secret cabals and The Masons. Our interaction went something like this:

Him: Hey!

Us: Why are you shouting? Who are you?

Him: It’s me, Michael Arrington, your friend.

Us: We might have said hello to you at a panel-conference once, but we’re not really friends.

Him: I heard you guys were here and I wanted to stop by and say hi because I always stop by places and say hi to people even when they don’t invite me to.

Us: Cool, but could you take it easy it on all our Tuna Crudo?

Him: So…

Us: You’re the one interrupting our dinner. Is there something we can help you with, other than the Tuna?

Him: (Deafening silence except the smacking sounds of raw tuna being voraciously chewed.)

Us: This is getting awkward. You should probably be leaving now. And seriously, lay off that Crudo.

And so he shuffled out, went to his car, logged onto his CruchPad thingy, and banged out this tinfoil-hat blog nonsense about our being some kind of benevolent evil-doing organization of rich dudes hell-bent on ruling the Earth through Y Combinators and unfair Groupon investing practices or whatever.

All we wanted to do was have some wine, eat the apps we ordered, and go on our merry ways making billions and billions of dollars within the byzantine self-sustaining system of insular wealth we worked so hard together to create.

So the punchline to this whole joke of a scandal is: bloggers are dicks, and will steal your food.