I think the quintessential reason to like Coreys is because they make you
feel better for who you are.
Loser who works at Barnes and Noble under one Daisy Morton? Dude, could be
worse: you could be doing coke off of a tranny in East Harlem with Corey.
Writer's block threatening to derail your nascent (fuck, prenatal) career?
Hey, man, you could be on the floor of the Viper Room, sucking gin martinis
out of the carpet since your credit card just bounced and you can't even
convince Tara Reid to buy you a double in exchange for some nasty, back of
the SUV oral, just like Corey.
Have gonarrhea? Hey, so does Corey! The antibiotics work, he says, no need
Hurricane Katrina buttfucked your house, school, career, life? You could be
bent over a casting couch, getting pegged by a D-level producer who thinks
that maybe he can find a place for you in next summer's blockbuster "Wet
Coeds 2: Bikini Beach Patrol." You and Corey.
See? See how this day is so vital to America? Because no matter how
bushwacked our own lives seem, we could be in the stinking morass that is
known as the life of being Corey. Thank you, brave Coreys, for living the
life that we don't even want to read about in US Weekly. Amen.