Anyone who knows me knows that I don't do tags. There's something about them that completely stifles my brain, and the poor thing can't afford any stifling. Tags are someone else's idea, and nothing I do can make them interesting to me. It's kind of like The View that way. There's one new tag going around that has people do ten lists of ... things about them ... I guess. Here's my take that lets me feel more free. If you want, use it for yourself. Have fun with it. The worst it'll do is ruin your life.
Ten Ways to Make Me Wish You Were Locked in a Reeducation Camp
10. Drive 100 MPH across all lanes in a parking lot, damn whatever pedestrians get in your way.
9.Ignore all the parking spaces at the gas station and park in front of the door so I have to walk all the way around your car to get in.Then spend 20 minutes buying lottery tickets and cigarettes.
8.Yell at your kid in public
7.Talk to me as if we're best friends the first time we ever lock eyes.
6.Beat me over the head with your politics, no matter what they are.
5.Blast your music so I can hear from my basement when you're twenty blocks away in my basement.
4. When you see your traffic lane's closing and there are people waiting in the other lane, drive up as far as you can to pass as many people as you can and make traffic slow down that much more for you.
3. Try to schedule a "playdate" for your child.
2.Use the words "TomKat", "Brangelina", or the like and not in a sentence that states that the people who come up with such names should be exposed in Antarctica.
1.Have your friend/ girlfriend/ boyfriend/ husband/ wife/ Seeing Eye dog start unloading items into the checkout lane while you run and get the 15 items you "just remembered" you need and make the next person in line wait an extra five minutes for you.
* I believe that our society is so frivolous and rude that reeducation camp is necessary for countless numbers of our citizens. In short, men in black vans would snatch rude and/ or silly people up in broad daylight, and take them to a camp where the residents are for two years fed gruel and the knowledge that: 1) They are not special. 2) They are not stars. 3) They do not deserve extra rights or privileges. 4) They can wait in line like everyone else. 5) The whole world is not just dying to see them and their bling or hear their music. They would be kept away from their families for that period of time as one would expect their families had a lot to do with their naughty behavior.
Nine Classes of People Who Should Be Test Subjects for Doctor Zolton's New and Improved Death Ray.
9. Telemarketers
8.Politicians
7.Those kiosk people in the mall who stop you to sell you stuff that's not good enough for informercials when all you want is out of the damn mall in the first place.
6.Metrosexuals.
5. Kids who wear their pants down to their Achilles tendons.
4. People who drive 50 MPH in school zones
3. Spammers.
2. People who crowd you and breathe impatiently down your the back of your neck in the grocery store/ gas station line as if it's going to make it go faster.
1. People who use songs for their outgoing answering machine/ voice mail message, as if I wanted to hear the distorted recording of a song someone with no taste or brains likes.
Eight people or groups I never want to hear another political "thought" from again.
8. Keith Olbermann
7. Sean Hannity
6. Moveon.org
5. Bill O'Reilly
4. Ann Coulter
3. That weird, effeminate guy on the extra hour of the Today show
2. Michael Moore
1. Bill Maher
Seven things you will never find on me.
7. Gold
6. Silk
5. Cologne
4. Anything by Prada or Gucci
3. Fur
2. Bling
1. Axe Bodyspray
Six things that would make my computing experience more complete
6. No more spam messages reminding me about my minuscule penis.
5. A computer cart not held together by Duck Tape.
4. A video card that doesn't turn everything blue.
3. A printer that um … prints stuff.
2. If that nice Nigerian guy would send me my $250,000 cut of his inheritance for helping him out.
1. A computer that might run a program or two
Five dreams that I keep having.
5. I'm back in college … naked **
4. I'm at the gas station … naked. **
3. I'm at work.Not naked.Just working.Great dream.
2. I'm watching TV.Really.Nothing else, just watching TV. It's a thrill a minute for me.
1. I'm fighting those damn Giant Vampire Squirrels again.
** In the naked dreams I'm more worried about people seeing my exposed fat than my minuscule penis.
Four People Who Probably Won't Change Washington Much
4. Joe Biden
3. Sarah Palin
2. John McCain
1. Barack Obama
Three things that are supposed to be colors, but I don't know what they are.
3. Puce
2. Mauve
1. Sienna
Two things I felt after hearing Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" other than shock and titillation.
It’s Labor Day. You Should Be Thinking about Politics.
Category: News and Politics
One problem with a presidential election year is that everyone wants to tell you their opinion. I'd be fine with that, but in presidential years, people don't just tell you their opinion. They club you over the head with their opinion like it's a baseball bat. They'll hit you over and over, until you're lying on the ground in the fetal position, begging for mercy, and that's if you agreed with them to begin with. And if you disagree with them, a lot of them will talk down to you in the comments section of their poorly edited, factless, completely illogical, misspelled blogs filled with grammar that a high school freshman would laugh at.
There's another problem, too. The people most likely to share their opinions with you don't seem to have good reasons for having those opinions, especially on the web. They just seem to think that the people in their social network want to read the most ridiculous things imaginable. Here are actual things I've read on MySpace.
"John McCain wants to make my one year old baby fight his wars."
"Barack HUSSEIN Obama," written as if the middle name means that Obama wants to be a genocidal Middle Eastern Dictator.
"McCain is Bush 3."
"Obama is a socialist."
I don't care who you want to vote for. That's your choice, but allow me to say this right now, none of the above are true, other than the simple fact that Obama's middle name is Hussein, but that's all it is, a name. All that matters to me is that you have a good reason to vote the way you're doing, and use your head if you want to write about politics.
Take a look at this ad here by the very odd political group, moveon.org, and see if you can understand what I mean about using your head before broadcasting your political opinion.
Other than making people wonder what kind of mother uses her kid in a cynical political ad, this ad raises a bunch of red flags. Let's take a look at what it's saying.
The Message: John McCain is an evil warmonger who wants to steal babies away from their mothers and make them fight wars. He is also immortal, and will somehow suspend the Constitution to keep his presidency going and steal babies for the next 100 years.
The Reality: Assuming McCain is immortal, term limits will keep McCain to eight years in the White House, tops. Alex won't even be ten by the time McCain leaves office. Also apparently unknown to moveon.org, the United States has what's called a volunteer army, which means that if Alex wants to join the military, Alex can. No one's going to snatch little Alex from mommy's hands, and she'll be free to stuff him with granola and weird political ideas for plenty of years.
Mommy might also not want to show this to little Alex. Kids who get used like this always turn out wrong. If he sees it, he's going to end up the president of the College Republicans and advocate cutting mommy's Social Security and Medicare.
Three million people supported the Alex ad? I doubt that moveon.org told all three million donors about it, but it's pretty easy for me to believe that there are three million wingnuts on either side. By the way, moveon.org says that this is their most effective ad ever. I wonder what the ads they thought were weak looked like?
And here are the right wingnuts, Focus on the Family.
One would think that if someone wanted to pray to change the weather, they might want to pray that the people about to get slammed by Hurricane Gustav might do a little better, or that Gustav might miss everyone completely. They might want to maybe pray rain to help the people in droughts, but no; they want you to pray for someone to get wet when he's making a speech, as if God's some kind of cosmic Dial a Prank.
And Stuart Shepard is a former weatherman? I'd hate to get the weather from this guy. Most decent weathermen like to look at high/ low pressure fronts on their radar. This guy was probably looking for a sign that Obama is going to usher in the end of the world.
Normal people look at these things and say, "This is insane," but the problem is that they have enough people to make the parties move. What does that mean? The wingnuts have now become a special interest group, and they're motivated. They have talk radio shows, websites, and political action committees. Moveon.org says that it has bought the Democratic Party. The ludicrous right says the same thing about the Republicans.
It's easy to motivate the obsessed. That's what they do. They're the ones quoting Rush Limbaugh, visiting weird sites like Talking Points Memo, the American Issues Project, moveon.org, and Newsmax. Not too unlike baby insects, they need their news chewed up and pre-digested to fit their pre-existing view of the world, and when they get it, they fire it out at everyone else. Rational people don't have the time for that sort of thing, considering they're living their rational lives.
Like a lot of people here, I'm voting for either McCain or Obama. I'm not telling you who I'm voting for, but you can probably guess if you really try based on other things I've written. Also, like a lot of people here, I've made my decision for my own reasons, and like a lot of people here, I know how to read for myself.
If you want to write your political blog, that's fine. It's your guaranteed Consitutional right. But if you want me to respect your opinion: you should show me more than what I'm seeing from these radical websites. Don't use your blog as a weapon against your friends, and most importantly if you want me to respect your opinion, you should respect everyone else's.
I'm scheduled to turn 40 years old in a few days. I looked at my planner for that day, and it seems that I have nothing better to do. And that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to turn 40. I'm not going to party. I'm not going to cry. I'm just going to turn 40.
Now, for most people on MySpace, that makes me something on the order of the Cryptkeeper. I'm so old, I come from another age. I remember when the Atari was a brand new system. Hell, I remember when Pong was amazing. I remember when Space Invaders rocked the world.
I remember when Arnold Schwarzenegger was a novelty act in movies. I remember when Star Wars was new, fresh, and satisfying to watch. I remember when Indiana Jones didn't need GGI to have his adventures.
I remember 8 track tapes. I remember how good records, not CDs, but actual vinyl records played by needles made rock music sound. I remember when Bruce Springsteen was the future of rock and roll, not its past. I remember when people righteously rebelled against disco music only to see it get repackaged as "house" and somehow become cool again.
I remember the Commodore 64, the TRS 80, and the Apple 2, not the 2E, but the Apple 2.
I remember playing youth baseball, and winning all of two games. I remember playing pee wee football, and never knowing what a win tasted like. I remember watching Mike Schmidt, Walter Payton, Earl Campbell, Dan Hampton, Mean Joe Greene, Steve Carlton, Bruce Sutter, Doctor J., Larry Bird, Moses Malone, Bobby Clarke, Guy Laflour, and other men who are nothing but plaques to people growing up today play like no one else.
I remember waking up Saturday mornings to Scooby Doo, Land of the Lost, Bigfoot and Wildboy, the Superfriends, and Shazam. I remember that Isis was a nice source of 9 year old fantasy when Wonder Woman wasn't on. I remember coming home to Speed Racer, Battle of the Planets, Star Blazers, Ultra Man, the Space Giants, Batman, and the Adventures of Superman. I remember when the Olympics were the only reality show on TV.
I remember long lines in the Dairy Queen, when McDonald's didn't have a place on every corner, when no one would think of opening up a place that only sold coffee outside of a shopping mall, walking with my mom to a small restaurant called Corky's that made great burgers because that was the place we could walk to in those days.
And I realize that these will be a small part of half of the memories of my life. They weren't all good. Hell, most of my memories of my childhood aren't good. But that's okay. They're like another fiction show. They've been replaced by a new reality, one I actually enjoy, with people I love around me, and friends who make me better.
Every thing I watched has given way to something newer, something fresher. Doctor J gave way to Michael Jordan, who gave way to Kobe Bryant. Terry Bradshaw turned it over to Joe Montana, who had to give way to players like Tom Brady. In Chicago, Bill George lost his legend to Dick Butkus. Then Mike Singletary's eyes were the most famous thing on CBS TV for a while. Now, I get to see a freak of an athlete like Brian Urlacher move faster than anyone his size moved at his position.
Bob Dylan gave way to Bruce Springsteen, and Bruce has handed the torch to new singers like Jack White. When I was a kid, Sean Connery was James Bond. Today, he's some blond guy. The movies are still good, and the character's changed from no nonsense spy with gadgets to a model to a dandy to another no nonsense spy to another dandy to another no nonsense spy. My days of watching Superman don't seem too much different from those of the kid watching Smallville. Clark was just older in my time.
We're all born with an expiration date, and I'm halfway to mine or farther, according to statistics. I can take care of myself, and I can give myself a few more years, or I can let myself go to spoil, not unlike milk left out of the refrigerator. No matter what I do, I will give way to something else. Every job I've done up until the one I'm doing now, I've left. I was replaced. In the end, even in my own family, I'll be replaced.
Every cell in my body has given way to a new one. They've been replaced because of cuts, scratches, blunt trauma, poor eating habits, free radicals, or simply age. I'm going to have plenty more new cells. If I remember my biology right, there isn't a single original part in my body, and when I die, not one cell in my body today will be around.
And I, along with the rest of my generation, will step aside for the next one, like every generation has before me. We're just cells in the grand body of life, but it's strangely the same.
I'm not old. I don't feel that old. I still watch pro wrestling and Doctor Who. I still grapple with pro fighters and competitive jiu jitsu players, and while I'm nowhere near their level, I don't embarrass myself. I can still ride a bike, and even though there's a hint of gray creeping up from my sideburns, my hair's still mostly the same dark brown it was the rest of my life.
But I'm not young either. I don't belong in a nightclub, and there are so many clothes I just shouldn't be wearing. I can put on an Affliction T-shirt, and I'm pretty sure I can look like an asshat if I do.
So, as I turn 40, I have to realize something. I'm an aging cell. I have some wear, but I'm still relatively healthy. I can choose to stay healthy. I can choose to remain vital, to benefit every other cell around me. I can be a source of energy until I finally age out of my usefulness.
Or I can be a cancer, and I can affect all the cells around me with my poison, infecting my corner of the world. I can be angry and bitter that I never became a rock star, that I never was famous, that I probably won't be president, that my function on this earth isn't what I dreamed it would be, and it certainly wasn't what everyone told me it would be. I can resent the fact that we can't all be the richest, the fastest, the strongest, the smartest, or the best looking, that I'm not any one of these, and I can cast my resentment out until I find someone with a similar nasty mindset and we can broadcast that resentment in harmony.
That doesn't sound like fun.
I've learned some things. Forty isn't too old to achieve. I got my first fiction publication at almost 40. I didn't get paid tons, but my foot's finally in the door. I'm going to put the gloves back on now that there's master's boxing, and I'm going to love every second of getting clobbered in master's Jiu Jitsu.
I've learned that I can't let things shake me. As I look at things from the longer perspective, so much about mankind is the same, and so many events play out the same way throughout the years. I remember when gas priced quadrupled, tensions faced the Middle East, we were ending a war, and a middle of the road Republican faced a relatively untested Democrat. That year was 1976. The cells change, but the body remains the same.
I've learned that others matter. Believe it or not, that was a huge lesson for me. I lived in my own little bubble for most of my life, never realizing that I was stepping on toes and hurting feelings along my path.
And I've learned the joy of doing what I love. Writing a blog is nice, as a hobby. It has a place. You can broadcast a message that people hear, but it's not the same as professional writing. It's not half as satisfying, not for someone who wants to write. There's nothing like finally achieving a piece of your childhood dream, even if it's not the giant piece of it that you thought you'd get.
But then again, I do have 40 more years, and I have a whole lot more to learn.
"The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it." P.J. O'Rourke
Over the course of this election, a whole lot of people are going to write a whole lot of MySpace blogs telling you who to vote for. Most of them are written by people who have a lot of passion but haven't been in the trenches. That means that you get a lot of blogs written by True Believers, who don't realize that their guy is as full of crap as anyone else who wants to be president.
When I talk about the trenches, let me tell you what it means. On the lowest level, you're the guy who has to take a sledgehammer and knock those street posters into the ground. I had that job once, and when I finished the campaign wanted its hammer back.
The problem was that the campaign wanted the hammer back during a political rally where the main speaker was the president. All I had to do was return the hammer to the campaign trailer. The problem was that the trailer was on the other side of the Secret Service checkpoint. I don't know if you've ever been in the position of meeting the president with a sledgehammer in your hand, but I can tell you first hand that the Secret Service doesn't take too kindly to people trying to walk past them with sledgehammers.
I've been a paid political speech writer (for a day, but still). I've worked on phone banks. I've organized sections of parades. I've run groups that observed local media for a presidential campaigns, and I've worked on one Senatorial campaign and two for the House of Representatives. I think I might know a little bit about politics here.
So, here are the real issues that you all need to know to understand the two guys we could be voting for.
McCain Paris Ad
Now, I know McCain's getting up there in years, but he's mistaking a 47 year old black man for two blond girls in their twenties. Have you seen Cindy McCain? She's a hot blond woman. I wonder if he ever looks at Bill Cosby and sees his wife? Does he get randy looking at Chris Rock or Will Smith because he thinks he's looking at Jessica Simpson? Does that work in reverse? Does he look at John Goodman and see Beyonce?
Speaking of Paris Hilton, how is she the most reasonable person in this election?
Now, this is where I'm frightened. The day that Paris Hilton owns you, you're in trouble. Now, I know what some people are going to say. Paris Hilton didn't write that. "She was just reading off a Teleprompter." For those of you who say that she's just reading what other people write, I have a big surprise for you. So does John McCain. So, that means that Paris Hilton's writers are smarter and quicker than McCain's people. Does anyone else see a problem when a girl with no job has a better team than the guy who wants to run the country? And frankly, I like her policy more than his or the other guy who wants to run this country's.
You think I'm kidding about the other guy? Listen to this.
That's right. Obama's energy policy is to have you get regular tune ups and to make sure your tires are inflated. If you do that, we're not going to need any extra oil. Never mind the fact that the Chinese have decided that they like oil too, and they're buying it. I'm no economist, but I did get an A in Econ 101, and if I remember right, if more people want oil, and the supply stays the same, the price is going to go up. Now, I know, Obama's people say that the oil from off shore drilling won't be ready to go for ten years. So, Obama's telling us we won't need oil in ten years?
Maybe Obama's thinking about his career as a possible pitchman for Midas after he's done with politics.
Now, he doesn't just do cars. Obama does conspiracy theories, too.
Some people might see Obama as pandering to an extreme element in the black left. Some might say "That's what you get for giving idiotic protesters a forum." Me? I'm worried about the fact that he's spoken out about how Hurricane Katrina was caused by the US Government. This sort of thing happened on an episode of GI Joe. Destro invented a Weather Dominator, and the Joes had to fight him.
I'm afraid that when Obama gets into office and finds out that GI Joe was just a cartoon. he's going to be crushed. What's he going to do when he finds out that he can't just send Snake Eyes, Duke and Sergeant Slaughter out after every international enemy? Does he think that the greatest security threat to the United States is Megatron? Does he have an anti-Lex Luthor policy?
Speaking of crushed, take a look at John McCain's face when he finds out that Al Queda isn't actually going into Iran to get training and supplies.
This is the National Security expert of the two of them talking here. If it was so well known that Iran was training Al Queda, why didn't anyone get around to telling Al Queda or the Iranians? If McCain knows so much more than Obama like the press says, what does Obama know? Maybe the two of them really are going to compare notes on how to fight Magneto in the next debate. I can see it now. McCain's going to advocate using Cyclops and Wolverine, and Obama and his advisers will launch an impassioned speech about how we need to develop Spider-Man.
Speaking of Obama, here's what he had to say on the subject ...
Yeah. I've had to think under such a deafening roar, too. It's really hard. It's a shame that crowd was so unruly. If they only weren't chanting and screaming, I'm really sure that Obama would have gotten out a coherent sentence. Props to him for calling them out. He should have had them blasted with pepper spray or something to get them under control.
If he couldn't hear himself think with that crowd, what the Hell else was yelling in his head?
Maybe it was his geography teacher.
You know. I should have something really funny to say about this.
Or this.
Did McCain go to the same geography class as Obama? I always thought that the country with problems on the Pakistan border was this quaint, odd little place called India. It's only got a billion people, give or take.
Sorry. That wasn't actually too funny, but you see politics is serious and tragic business. And there is a serious tragedy on the horizon. One of these two kettleheads is going to be our next president.
What will we do when one of these guys becomes an international embarrassment? How can our country survive with such a brainless leader as one of these two?
Oh, yeah, and for you impatient, can't wait a minute types, the resuts for The Ultimate Ranter are going up on Monday morning.
The Ultimate Ranter ... Semi Final Bracket 2
Category: Blogging
If you're wondering why my blog, and my MySpace for that matter, has been falling by the wayside, blame a five year old kid. One of the funny things about writing for money is that you're really not writing so much for the readers as you are the people who pay your bills, and there's something funny about the people who pay. When you pitch a story, the odd thing is that the people buying it actually expect you to write it.
Now there's one thing I never thought I'd ever write for money, and that's fiction for kids. But, when the time came to pitch ideas for stories, somehow, this little five year old kid with a bad attitude kept coming out. He just wouldn't leave. Now, he's consuming all of my free time, and people want to pay me when I finish the stories. I will catch up, eventually, but for now, we do have a rant tournament to finish.
In the last episode of the Ultimate Ranter, Team Phuqt celebrated their victory by launching the canasta table into the swimming pool. Team Phuqt decided to offend Casey's vegetarian sensibilities by ordering only sausage and pepperoni pizzas. Sue Fancypants, customarily disrobed to annoy Team Bristow, but Curtis and Casey just watched and ate popcorn.
Shannon, the Untamed Shrew, made her surprise return and immediately smashed the statue Phuqt made of himelf.
Meanwhile, the judges decided to hold off announcing the winner of the first semi final round to make the big announcement of the finals matchup on Tuesday, angering everyone, except themselves. Goze and R.H. said something about "retainers" before being shocked that neither of them had yet received an envelope.
The final semi final round is set. It's a Team Bristow slugfest as Casey takes on Shannon the Untamed Shrew. Who moves on to take on the winner of Slade Ham vs. Sue Fancy Pants? Who will clean up after Casey, who being bored, attempted to make a poop sculpture of Dabney Coleman? Who will be The Ultimate Ranter?
In the red corner, representing Team Bristow, is Casey. He enjoys mass urban uprising, animal reclamation of land, and old PBS children's shows.
--You Won't See Umbootu Feeling Sorry For Himself --
Excuse me, young man… Would you please share with us the reason for this bullshit? "What bullshit", you ask. Well, where should we begin?... It doesn't matter, really. You're a canvas drenched in "poor me"- so I'll just bust out the figurative gesso and see if I can't make some sense of you…..
First- what the fuck's so hard about your Life that you need to advertise to the world that you're hiding your cuts? And don't tell me it's not an advertisement, because if you weren't trying to draw attention to the self-inflicted drama on your forearms, you wouldn't "cover" them with red and black striped socks. It's like the barber's pole of the new millennium- letting the "man-on-the-street" know that he won't be getting a fresh shave with that razor, but he can watch you snivel about upper middle-class suburban teendom as you use the blade to play tic-tac-totally retarded on soft, thin flesh that's never been subject to anything approaching an honest day's work. You're right to cover that shit up- to let our imaginations fill-in the graphic details. Without those ridiculous stockings, it'd simply look as if the cat had gotten the better of you…..
And, I understand that styles change. That the youth feel compelled to express themselves through their clothing and hair. I went through this myself… Here's the thing, though- why on earth would you choose to spend over an hour primping, and fooling yourself into thinking the rest of us are under the impression that you just threw some shit on and wisped out the door?... I can see the fucking gel holding your "careless", vision-impeding hairdo in place. Tell me something- do the words "heroin chic" register in that vapid hole between your ears? The world has seen this before. And your fat friend isn't creating the illusion of sunken eyes by uncle-Festering his mascara. It just looks like he's got shit for aim with his black licorice Gustafs… Which reminds me- is this dismal existence reserved exclusively for those with body types on the extreme ends of the spectrum? Do you ever invite average-sized kids to sulk around and act pathetic with you? Or, would that ruin some intended contrast?...
I know I'm asking a lot of questions- and I have even less faith than you could imagine that you'll actually be able to answer them. After all- you present yourself as an idiot- someone who is ill-equipped to survive the ordeal of sharing a sidewalk with Shirley Temple in slippers. In short, I fear the day our world will be run by your generation. Tests have proven that you're only getting dumber, and any fighting spirit you might have been born with, was smothered long ago by parents who were afraid to discipline you in front of strangers at the fucking grocery store… The good news is- I'm not. So pull your head out of your ass, you whiney little bitch. You and your sense of entitlement are coming with me to Somalia, so you can explain to the localsjust exactly why the world owes you jack shit…..
And in the Blue Corner, also representing Team Bristow, Shannon, the Untamed Shrew. She really doesn't like a whole lot of things.
I recently joined another social networking site, outside of Myspace, that a girlfriend of mine suggested.It appears on this other site, people can flirt with you, secretly admire you, and leave you shit like "lunch money".This site has taken the "High School" mentality we all seem to employ on here, and run with it.
People can leave you gifts ranging from anything like a roll of toilet paper to a platinum set diamond ring.What more of an ego boost does an Untamed Shrew need?
It had been several months since I accessed this networking site, so I had quite a long list of "secret admirers" to go through.What I saw left me a bit frightened about the mentality of our common man and the steps one goes through to select an avatar that best represents YOU to the rest of us.Is THIS the best you have to offer me?Is this the VERY best you have to try snag an unsuspecting woman before locking her in your basement with a ball gag in her mouth so your mom doesn't hear?
Allow me to illustrate by providing visual aids and a little story about what YOUR image says to ME, the female of our species, who finds herself laughing through that little bit of bile that collects at the back of my throat right before vomiting.
Image 1
This poor gentleman is trying to "strike a pose" so as to look, I don't know, sexy?What he ends up looking like is one of those men neighbors will talk about when the CSI van pulls up.Neighbors will proclaim, "But he was so QUIET".
TIP:Brush your hair, and face the camera head-on.Your neck looks like a bobble head doll flopping on someone's dashboard.
Image 2
This quietly poetic gentleman is viewing the world and all it has to offer.He is sensitive, and in tune with what we women need.He also proclaims to have a tongue that will do wonders to all who meet him.Unfortunately, this Romeo's image is ruined by the Elvis blanket he probably shrouds himself in while posing in front of the mirror with his man junk tucked between his legs, asking, "Do you wanna fuck me?"Let's not forget the Sponge Bob chair in the back.He must use that to lure small children from his Ice Cream truck route to his home whenever he needs to "put the lotion in the basket".
Image 3
The backdrop of this image is of a dyslexic grocery store with a rubbish bin that probably contains the missing remains of Jimmy Hoffa or Sandpaper Sally who'd "suck a dick for a dolla".A fine, young, upstanding young man such as yourself in your pressed pink shirt could have SURELY picked a better picture than one where you look all "gangsta".Especially when your profile proclaims that you are warm, loving, and sensitive.
Image 4
I'm highly disturbed by this image of Buffalo Bob in his leather chaps.For a man who wears a "do rag" over the chrome dome, he certainly has quite the collection of hair products on his shelf.Gentlemen, PLEASE IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, if you're going to proclaim yourself "single and lookin' for love", remove your woman's shit from the backdrop of your image.I'm sure those pink hoopdie doop earings in the foreground would look cute on you, but I doubt they're yours.
Image 5
I'm sure you're a nice guy, Mr. I8PUSSY24/7, but I'm afraid of you.I'm afraid of that glazed look in your eye of someone who has surfed the net for midget porn one too many times and found it lacking.I'm afraid of the collection of garbage you have around you in the background of your image.You seem a bit old to be playing with model cars as you eat Spaghetti O's directly from the can.If you REALLY want to maintain that 24/7 habit of yours, you might want to re-think the image you're portraying.Then again, a man who eats right from the can wouldn't recognize a high-quality piece of USDA choice pooter if it latched onto your forehead like that pair of sunglasses you wear indoors.
Image 6
Awww… the "Sensitive Gangsta" modeling the new outfit Grammy got him for him's burfday.You need a high ass quality Donkey Punch is what YOU need mister!
Image 7
Davey Crocket with his coon-skin mullet is looking mighty fine posing with his Lhasa Apso girlfriend, Trixi (who signs her name with itty bitty hearts).Do us a favor buddy.Quit clinging to scraps, OK?I'm sure you're a nice guy and underneath all that denim and hair.I'm sure you're a really sensitive man who loves the smell of puppy's breath.The problem is that we can't see it because we're too busy staring in awe at the Buick parked on your head.
I'm going to rinse my eyes with Clorox and pray to all that is good and holy that I won't turn a corner and run into one of these people in real life one day.I don't think my Tide-to-Go stick can handle a stain as big as what THAT would leave in my underbritches.
Readers, your job is to tell the judges who they should vote for. Ranters, talk your within team trash.
Jimmy Taylor had it all. He opened up his MySpace blog. He bulletined frequently, and the masses came. They couldn't get enough of his writing. The thousands of people a day who showed up clapped, cheered, and all left two kudos. Every reader told two friends about the overwhelming greatness that was Jimmy's blog, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on. Jimmy Taylor became a phenomenon.
Jimmy's blog wasn't great because it was about something. It was about everything, mostly Jimmy Taylor. Jimmy Taylor proved that you could be a massive sensation without any formal training. So what if he didn't obey every rule of grammar. The critics came, and they loved it. The local press found him. Then the national press came. It wasn't long before Random House came with an offer to turn his blog into a book. He made millions, dated and then married a porn star, and he ran seminars on how to turn your MySpace blog into millions. He was the overnight writing sensation of his time.
Then, Jimmy Taylor woke up.
Suddenly, Jimmy noticed that he only had 200 blog hits and 45 comments, almost half of which were his own. He had the same steady readers, and they were faithful for the most part, but even they missed commenting every so often. What was the matter with them? Didn't they know it was their job to comment his blog? And what about the stupid masses? Why didn't they know about the greatness of Jimmy Taylor's blog?
Worst of all, that pesky case of jock itch hadn't cleared up despite all the Tinactin that Jimmy used.
So, Jimmy figured a second bulletin would help. Okay, maybe the third or the fourth. Well, the fifth would have to do it. Jimmy wrote so many bulletins every single blog, and, yet, the masses didn't appear. Well, more people came, but Jimmy Taylor still wasn't a top blogger.
And Jimmy Taylor knew that it was his destiny to be a top blogger.
Jimmy couldn't figure it out. He bulletined. He updated his status message to say "Blog, blog, blog, blog, blog!" every time he wrote one. He wrote his friends, asking them what they were doing, and they all apologized. Then they left half hearted comments in his blogs to satisfy him, but deep down Jimmy questioned their friendship. What good were his friends if they didn't jump to comment his blog? His friends were in the way of his destiny.
So, he left them to get new friends. He researched all of the top blogs on MySpace, and he left all of them comments. Surely the people would come running to see Jimmy Taylor's blog, and some did. Suddenly, Jimmy had 300 views, and the number was rising.
Real life friends called Jimmy, inviting him to movies, to watch the game, or to go out and have a drink, but Jimmy had a calling. He was a blogger. These weren't his real friends. They didn't have blogs. They didn't understand him anymore. In fact, they were trying to get him not to blog, and that couldn't stand.
He stopped picking up the phone. His real friends left comments on his blog. These were just people trying to buy him a beer or waste his time seeing Dark Knight. They were obstacles, not friends. He knew what they were about. They were about their petty concerns. He was a blogger. He had more important things to do.
After a while, his blog got large enough where he had people writing "First?" every time he wrote something. Jimmy Taylor had arrived. He had dominated his category. That's right! He hit 1. Finally. No one in the Pets and Animals section of MySpace had a clue what hit them that day. The Jimmy Taylor freight train hit him. He was unstoppable! Then he looked for himself in the "All Categories" section. He was 137. That was okay. He'd get them next time. He'd be the Top Blogger on MySpace soon enough. He had momentum.
So, he looked at what he wrote, and he stuck with what got him the most comments. He wrote a blog daily so that people would constantly know he was there.
Jimmy Taylor wrote his 200th blog, and the press never came. The talent scouts never found him. He didn't reach 1 in all categories even that day. He didn't even reach 50. His real life friends were celebrating the birth of a kid or some trivia like that on his 200th blog celebration. He never even realized that the people leaving him all the comments and kudos quit reading his blog a while ago.
Jimmy Taylor never got help, but he had the most classic case of Top Bloggerism that had ever existed on MySpace. To Jimmy Taylor, MySpace quit being a tool, but an end. He lived and died by his MySpace blog, and if the people didn't come, Jimmy wasn't validated. He didn't matter. People writing him nice messages was cool and all, but he wanted blog hits.
Now, Jimmy wasn't a "Top Blogger." You don't have to be a "Top Blogger" to suffer from "Top Bloggerism." Being a "Top Blogger" doesn't mean you have it, either. Top Bloggerism, simply put is the catastrophic, irrational desire to be a "Top Blogger."
The symptoms are pretty obvious. People suffering from Top Bloggerism do whatever they can to drum up attention to their blogs. They shift from writing real blogs to pandering work that doesn't make anyone think. They beg people to come to their blogs. After a while, they demand that people come to their blogs, and they're not joking.
People suffering from Top Bloggerism don't see their MySpace friends as people they talk to. They see them as blog hits, blog comments, and blog kudos. They wonder why people aren't commenting. Never mind that the people may: be at the gym, eating dinner, raising their kids, playing softball, walking, cleaning their house, reading a book, have had better things to do, or just may not have been in the mood to read a blog. It's a personal thing if people don't comment. To people suffering from Top Bloggerism, people on MySpace are there for them.
Blog hits are seductive. Kudos and kind comments make you feel like you're reaching people. They're the ultimate form of instant gratification in writing. You don't have to wait more than a few minutes before people are telling you how good you are, and when you see hundreds, and sometimes even thousands, of people reading you within a day, it's hard not to want it to keep coming. The problem is that some people become junkies.
The fact of the matter is that some blogs do become phenomena. Some blogs do get turned into books. Some of them create writing stars out of the blog writer. Those blogs aren't on MySpace. They're built through a cult following, good writing, and proper marketing, not bulletins, browbeating, and status updates. Look at "Stuff White People Like" to see how to turn a blog into a book. That blog had a concept, good writing, and social insight. It was available to the world, and the world loved it. There's nothing on MySpace with that same kind of following, even the "Top Blogs."
No one on MySpace is going to be a star based on their MySpace blog. They can get a lot of attention, and the small group in the MySpace blog community may watch them, but professional writing requires focus. It requires patience, and it requires delaying gratification for the time the writing gets published. The bestselling authors who are on MySpace keep blogs. Believe it or not, they're not "Top Bloggers." Which would you rather be?
When people think about who's not reading instead of who is, it's the scariest form of this obsession. If you have 200 blog hits, it's great. That means people are reading. It means people are noticing. But people wonder why that 200 isn't 2000 or more. Then they just seem disturbed.
A blog can help a writer develop a voice, and the people commenting can show that the voice is being heard. A blog can get someone who otherwise wouldn't be read some readers. A blog can connect people. A blog can entertain. A blog may even provoke thought, but despite everything else, a blog is merely a tool.
What do you call someone obsessed with a ratchet wrench?
The Ultimate Ranter ... Semi Final Bracket 1
Category: Blogging
Before talking about anything pertaining to this tournament, Katrina Brown has had to bow out because of a personal issue. I'm not going to address it here, but she's posted the specifics in her blog. Please, everyone, keep her and her family in your thoughts.
For those of you who don't follow such things, and I'm pretty sure that many of you don't, Air It Out Radio presented its Golden Dork Awards last night. And, while the civilized world was sleeping, The Ultimate R
