The mass exodus of talent, the relentless shareholders, the increasingly nasty letters from Carl Icahn, the slaps from Sue Decker, the nasty voice mails from Ballmer, the endless meetings with lawyers — I give up. Okay? I give up. It’s 7:30 in the morning on Sunday and they’ve been working me over with the Gitmo treatment, not letting me sleep for more than an hour at a time, waking me up and asking me the same questions over and over and over again. Honestly by 4 a.m. this morning, sitting there with two lawyers with their horrible coffee breath, I began to kind of hallucinate and thought they were interrogators. And honestly right then I would have signed anything, confessed to anything.
So you know what? You win. I give up. I’ll leave. Okay? You happy now? I’m going. And I’m not coming back. I’m sure it’s been nice to have a whipping boy, a scapegoat, but you know what? I’m sick of it. You won’t have Jerry Yang to kick around anymore. Because I’m getting out of the dunk tank. You can pick on someone else. Seriously, fuck all of you. I’m going to Disneyland.
Not sure when we’ll announce it or how to do it. We’ll take a little while to think over how we should do it. But I’m not even joking. I’m gone, assholes.