Hi-Tech Hate

Sigh. If a review opens with a sigh, chances are, things aren't getting any better in the near future. See, English isn't everyone's first language and it's a concept that takes some getting used to. Yeah yeah, the dotted ones claim to use English as their first language - but don't you deny it - it's not what your racist granma uses to complain about your tan looking girlfriend. It's not the language your movie stars use to shill for "fairness creams".

But the thing is, the language has a few easy to understand, and follow, rules. Mind you, I don't care too much about grammar - that's a beast very few have tamed. But the Queen's tongue does lend itself to simplicity at the worst of times, if you tell yourself -

• I will always say I, not i
• Capital letters are great, when used correctly and WHEN NOT LIKE THIS
• Commas break a sentence like this, and this, but do not end it like this,
• Those red wiggly lines you see are might look like they're somewhat annoyed, but in reality what they're saying is HOLY FUCKNUTS BATMAN!! THIS IS A FULL SIZED KEYBOARD THAT YOU CAN TYPE FULL SIZED WORDS ON, SO COME ON TAKE A GODDAMNED CHANCE!!!
• You typing is not the same as you talking. If you mix up the two, chances are most of us don't want either

Anyhow, when was the last time we saw an IFLY? When was the last time someone published something on my reader? Oh wait, I don't know - I haven't logged in for the last 3 months. So it angers me to no end to see a blog with semi-regular new posts (or so I think - I can't figure out the bloody site navigation) that has nothing but useless drivel.

In the past, I'd rip on blogs called XYZ Journal, useless updates, and simply missing the point about blogging. But now, 2 minutes away from the next day, I simply don't care. I'm not even sure if my idea of blogging holds up anymore. I thought it was a place to weave stories, to conjure posts with the magic of words. But perhaps it is a medium to vomit what you can't fit into 140 characters. If the meek shall inherit the earth, maybe the lame will keep the blogs alive.

This was supposed to be a review but I'll end with a plea instead. Shakti, and the others still "blogging". Read a book. Just one. Any one. Please?

High Speed Dirt

Greetings flesh bags. It's been a while, and I can't say I've missed you. Since my last review, I've gained a few hundred pounds, broken an opposable digit, and have lost all interest in blogging - reading, writing, and reviewing. The good lady hid my PS3 controller to accelerate my healing, and I haven't hunted a dim-witted herbivore in the last month. I am PISSED off and sure as hell hope I'm reviewing fuckin' Wodehouse today.

No? Fuck me and my broken claw then. "My Tumbling Thoughts to the World ...beware, here I come" (fuck, fuck, fuck) treats visitors with a list of "Amazing people who make me go on n on n on:)". I had flashbacks of karaoke nights in a basement bar, peanut shells, the overwhelming smell of urine, and asshole frats "ironically" singing Journey. And they ask me why I hate people.

When I visit a new blog, I usually page down to the bottom to get a quick look at the sidebar, template and general design. Not that I care about aesthetics, but historically speaking - crappier the sidebar, worse the content. But hey, if she has so many awards, she must be AWESOME right?

Sure, English is not your first language Suruchi, but must you make it so hard? You're a teacher, and your profile reads

I think I am wise, which makes me the unwisest of all theoretically...but rest assured, I can be what I wanna be and there's so much in me that I wanna share

If this were the first class of the course, I'd be getting ready to drop it right about now.

So what does a harebrained teacher write about? There's advice on kissing, new-age bullshit, and random thoughts no one deserves to be subjected to. It's one part emo, two part mommy blog - but complete bullshit whichever way you slice it. You yack about how you're different and how wise you are. But your writing simply can't shake off the unmistakable smell of bullshit.

I had a lot of trouble getting through your writing, and a small part of it was due to your frequent switching to Indianese. There's nothing wrong in using other languages in passing if they're translated (or obvious) and used in the proper context. But "writing" like you're "talking", and all the time at that is utter tripe. Also, you do know that writing like *this* is to *emphasize* something, and that the helpful duo (parentheses) are used to interject sentences? Right? Right? *RIGHT*? And, why in the name of Vishnu do Indians use so many ellipses? You have a full sized keyboard, and presumably a normal sized brain, what's the deal with the chat acronyms?

You don't seem to check yourself in light of your identity for all to see, but is this the best you can do? We get people who can't reach their full potential because their mothers and cube neighbors are frequent visitors, and we advise them to go anonymous just to explore their boundaries. I'd suggest the same for you, but only to spare your loved ones from the trash you churn out.

This showcases almost everything that's wrong with your writing. When you aren't stabbing grammar in the balls with a corkscrew, you get all cutesy, mix up tenses, styles of speech, overuse ellipses, use languages I don't understand. Even if I were to ignore fuckin' ALL of that, there's absolute no substance in a page long post. And for God's sake SAY FUCK WHEN YOU MEAN FUCK.

An hour at her blog, and I was down three glasses of my cigar malt but got nowhere close to finding something redeeming. To entertain myself, I began scrolling wildly, and came up with a composite post from a page of Suruchi's manure farm.

Presenting... the best post ever.

And suddenly I hear moans...
She put her fingers lovingly against the flaccid face of Sushant, the deepest of peaceful sleep spreading across his pallor.
Where men get ready to fist a loafer’s face blue if he raises so much as an eyelid at the girl on his arm...
What maximum can happen?
Come out...say as you feel...be as you are...

That got boring quick, so I substituted words in her posts to keep me going.

Between the duration when a vibrator would reach from the ground floor to his doorstep through the elevator, he said he would have written an article.

I was having an interesting conversation with a dear friend the other day when a kind of penis appeared quite conspicuously to the fore!

Fuck this shit. As bad as the writing is, there are several dozen "readers" to keep her going, and I think that's a tragedy nearly as big as this blog is.

Suruchi, get on the bus. And here's another for your "followers".



Also, since you like awards, here's one. You know where to stick it. *Your sidebar is an option*

Fuck.

There are people in the world who have time to write like, every f__ing day.  I have barely enough time on my hands to scratch up one post a month, having chosen a career that makes data entry look like the f___ing Superbowl.  Also, how can I expect other reviewers to finish their posts when I don't even have time to pretend I'm going to write one?

The main reason it took me so f___ing long to write this f___ing review was this: JennyMac is a mommyblogger (she would probably write a response to this that says, "NO, I am a MOM who BLOGS) who likes "cocktails" and has well over a million bajillion entries.  She also has a million bajillion fans, who would probably rush to her aid at the slightest criticism because they don't like being told they have generic taste. 

Mac, when you've been blogging long enough to have over 300 entries:  consider creating a "best of" page. Are you proud you wrote this?  Do you wish more people would read a particular entry?  Because sifting through over 500 of them is no easy task. Your header image almost fits into my screen...ahp, nope.  No it doesn't.  It leaks sideways because it's huge and full of water martinis and thin, chic, casually-leaning models. Fix it.

Whatever, Jenny Mac seems very nice and cute and should probably have her own Chuck Lorre sitcom where hilarity strikes with a stressful moving day or a naive misunderstanding, where taking the Lord's name in vain (so bad!) and covering it up quickly with a well-placed pun results in uproarious laugh tracks and stray giggles, but I'm afraid I just don't have the skill to pretend that I find that s__t funny.  It's too formulaic.  She takes small events with the idea of turning them into something bombasticly hilarious, but it's just set-up, punchline.  Set-up.  Punchline.  Set-up.  Punchline. 

Rarely does the punchline have any relevance to the set up, it's just a little snappy comeback she's proud of slapping on the end of a sentence in a random situation.  These things don't add any human quality to the mix, because she's only showing us her self-approved quirks, not hopes and blood and secrets and fear which becomes hilarious because it has to be, because if it's not funny then it's sad and sad is bad.  Ideally we want all honest knuckles and laughter...but no, that's not what JennyMac is. 

From a technical standpoint, JennyMac is nonpareil. Her spelling is impeccable, her grammar has improved greatly since the beginning of the blog (there were so many unsatisfying run-on sentences I almost quit reading it and flame-fingered her a__), she uses good words and gets her point across.  Sometimes she's super cheese, but I like that.  Sometimes.  When it works. 

For the most part, though, it reads like cartoon bubbles between disembodied Jennifer Aniston and Kate Hudson, adorable and relatable because of they are "real women" with "flaws" just like "you and me."  She tries to describe awkward and embarassing situations, but I'm never embarrassed for her.  I never get that, "Oh s__t, no f____ing way, dude.  No.  F___ing.  Way." And sometimes I feel awful. I feel awful because this made me feel nothing.  I feel awful because she doesn't want to share her fears and desires, or she has no fears and desires and I can't tell which, and I feel awful because I don't give a s__t about her fears and desires because she doesn't seem like a real person. 

But it's fine, right?  It's all fine.  JennyMac, your blog is fine, moderately enjoyable, and you seem like a nice, genuine person.  Genuinely nice people are hard to review.  Like most nice people, you claim to have a bitchy side every once in awhile but I honestly don't think you do, and that pisses me off, too, because it means you're either a liar (not nice) or delusional (most likely) and that is always frustrating.

Maybe it's because in the grand scheme of crazy and ridiculous, you aren't.  I just can't get all giggly over a walk of shame, because bitch?  I did that last night.  The only good part about that story was the note from Action Jackson, and that's just because I've put bike locks around drunk people before and it's hilarious.  Once I duct-taped two people together in a lawn chair and threw them in a river.

Don't get all butt-hurt, it wasn't a very deep river.

But one of my biggest pet peeves is getting cheated out of a good, well-deserved fuck.  What the fuck?  Just fucking say fuck, you fuck. Not saying fuck is fucking annoying as fuck.  Either you mean fuck or you mean something else, and if you mean something else THEN FUCKING SAY SOMETHING ELSE.

Fuck.




and

because I am awesome at irony.


Also?  Sorry about the wait.

Breakfast of Champions

My favorite thing to do when I first wake up is to pour myself a cup of freshly ground coffee, go out on my balcony, and read the local paper while enjoying a cigarette.

Yep, that's right. I am a smoker. I've wasted a ton of money, at the end of the day I smell like an ashtray, and I can't even walk quickly without having an asthma attack. Not something I'm proud of, but there it is.

A lot of good things have come out of my dirty, filthy habit though. For instance, I've met people who are now close friends because we were both outside freezing our asses off. One such friend has a theory that smokers are more interesting people, since you have to be pretty emotionally damaged to willingly sacrifice years off your life for a quick fix.

Which is why, given the choice between blogs, I chose to review "Inspired by Caffeine and Nicotine". I figured someone who chooses those particular addictive substances for their blog title has to be interesting.

I wasn't wrong. Robblogger is a sci-fi fan with a twisted sense of humor, who plays fucked up pranks on his very patient live-in girlfriend. He also hates the general public and writes opinionated and snarky posts about popular culture. I like it. He reminds me of my friend with the "Smoker Theory".

However, there are lots of things I don't like. 90% of his posts are rambling, stream-of-consciousness-type monologues. This blog would be much easier and more enjoyable to read if I could follow what the hell Robblogger is saying. Sometimes it's like reading the blog of an ADD-riddled drunken monkey, hyped up on too much coffee and cigarettes.

Oh, wait.

My advice to Robblogger is the same advice we end up giving almost everyone who has potential. Tighten that shit up. Edit, edit, edit. Cut out everything that doesn't move the story along and is just filler to make your posts longer. (Jesus, I have no idea why your posts are so fucking long.) Split them up into individual stories and post them separately. You bitch about people Twittering about their tuna sandwich at lunchtime (agreed), but your blog is filled with similar shit that your readers have to wade through to get to the good stuff.

The other huge faux-pas . . .blogging about blogging. This is coupled with a seeming obsession with getting followers, getting page views, and making money off of blogging. Booooooring.

No one wants to read about blogging. They want to read stories about your life and they want to be entertained. Your blog is only 4 months old. You have more followers and readers than you really should at this point. And this obsession makes me wonder if you only submitted here to get page views/money from clicks. (P.S. That's why there are no links to specific posts in this review. I don't like being used, ass.)

And making money off of blogging? We all wish. I know it's hard to pay the bills when you're unemployed (believe me, I do), but begging for money from strangers on the internet, while posting about how you just bought a new digital camera? Sorry, Charlie, but fuck off.

I'm really pissed right now. This guy is enough of an asshole, I think he'd fit in around here. Maybe even be capable of doing a couple guest posts if he got his writing act together. But the obsession with clicks and page views and making money off of this kind of make me hate him.

For that, you get a:







And for being an amusing asshole:

Just an Anomaly

Good afternoon, Askers, and I apologize for all the bojanglement regarding reviews. Today we have a guest reviewer. She likes dogs. You've met her before. I would write reviews myself, but I have this other thing going on right now, one that I get paid to do. Shit's goin' down and I'm throwin' punches. So languid, leisurely Ellie is helping me out, because I love her.

...

Oh, look, one of these slick, new templates with a background image over which the words will roll onto a translucent scroll! And when you page-down, it's like watching a freaky, hallucinogenic 1970s flick. Cool. (Maybe?)

That's my first impression. I think maybe this translucent template feature is cool. Then I'm drawn to the tagline, which is unusual because generally I overlook taglines . . .

usually just daft cliches anyway.

But the opening gambit on this one catches me. "Gus: What's your dental plan?"

This might be good.

But the background image turns a lighter shade of pale grey just where the tagline, with its light-coloured font, would continue. It's impossible to read more without squinting, and I'm too old for this shit. Squinting unnecessarily when you're my age is just asking for trouble.

So, I stop squinting and scroll down.

This is the website I'm going to review.

I have what might be a pang of remorse.

Did I accept this invitation to review too impulsively? It takes so much time to properly review someone's internet baby.

I wonder if I even know what doing it "properly" means. I felt so unseasoned my first go-arounds. I don't think I used my natural voice or developed a new, more interesting one. I just modelled myself off previous reviews. This time I decide to be me, without tricks or sexual innuendo or some seemingly non-related start that ends up somehow being related. I don't know if I know how to do it properly. I do know, though, that it takes time.

Where will I find the time?

I realise I have been scrolling over the first post* which is nothing but a collection of a few pretty photos of leaves. I continue scrolling downwards. The next post is a photo of some gun-selling super mall in the United States of America.

Fuck yeah!

The third post is a grainy photo of of one of "Calcutta's compensations," a lake or wide river in the early morning or early evening. .

The fourth post starts off in the same vein: a photo of a couple of pretty, young girls caught in a charming, candid moment. I get excited by the prospect that I won't have to read any posts.

There aren't any words on this blog! This is a picture blog!

My exuberance is only tempered by a niggle about The Rules.

Are they going to expect me to write something about her blog not having any words? Will I have to make that clear? And if so, is that a bad thing? Will I be expected to do a proper review even though this isn't a proper blog? It's a picture blog! It's like the The Very Hungry Caterpillar of blogs! You can't say anything bad about The Very Hungry Caterpillar!

I switch over to AAYSR.

Surely, they will give me direction.

Even having thought it, I don't quite to expect it: to find a rulebook. But I do find one. I read the rules, all 7 of them. I'm a bit disappointed: the rules are directed at the reviewees. Where's my guidance?

God damn it, this isn't going to help me.

I flip back to the blog in question. I scroll through 3 pages of predominantly pictures. I ignore an experimental poem.

Just an anomaly.

Just as I lose myself in relief that I won't have to read to review this blog (February, 2010) Anandi pulls the rug out from under my feet by posting a word-packed review of Pygmalian.

What the fuck?

Right then and there, in February 2010, I decide what I'm going to give her.

Anandi, go fuck yourself. For breaking 5 of the 7 rules. For boring me shitless with your review of Pygmalian. For making me read a sampling of very bland posts after you promised so much in just pretty pictures.








*at the time of writing

This is not a review

Guess what’s not happening here at ‘Ask’? Blog reviews for those who blog without c.l.e.a.r.l.y. reading and then taking time to re-read and comprehend this and this.

Thank goodness, otherwise I would be pounding away on this keyboard writing a review for Nutcase 101. What kind of pain in my ass would that have been?

I would have started at the ‘About’ page where there would be some cloudy blurb about a weight problem, acting like being in one’s 30’s is confounding, a boyfriend and two cats.

Then I would have read post after post that I would have wished told me more. I would have read about the decision to post about a nose job, and then realized the photos had been removed. I would have been walked right up to the edge of the ache of missing someone, but not thrown over the cliff. I would have been told I am going to learn about the mental and emotional attachment to food, and then given some kind of countdown that I can get just as easily (and with one hell of a lot more entertainment or gut wrenching honesty) by stopping by any local OA or Weight Watchers meeting.

Worst of all, I would have found myself still hopeful at the point of finding an entire page devoted to a ‘Bucket List’. You know, that list we’re all supposed to have of things we want to do before we die.

“Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I would think. “Maybe she’s just shoved all the good stuff in there!”

I would lick my chops in anticipation of some place east of nowhere that she’s always wanted to go, the desire for an advanced degree, or wanting to take it up the ass just once.

I would end up getting sticking to a cleaning schedule and budget, drinking more water, cooking with less beef and I don’t know what the fuck all else. Oh, and let’s not forget two entire pages devoted to knitting and sewing that contain statements that photos and descriptions will be posted. This is, of course, is followed by nothing.

I sure am glad ‘Ask’ doesn’t review blogs like Nutcase 101. As a matter of fact, here’s an

for ‘Ask’ for that.

Oh, and here’s a

and a

for Nutcase 101 and other blogs like it for clogging up the blogosphere.
At least they don’t mind when they ask for a blog review and we simply refuse to do it. Otherwise, I would probably be so frustrated at this point that I would simply have to slap someone directly in the mouth about now.

Newsflash: If you tell me you're funny, you already suck

Imagine a friend sets you up with some dude. When you ask what he looks like, your friend can't even remember, probably because there is absolutely nothing about his colorless appearance that distinguishes him in any way from the 6 billion other people walking around. He's blander than cardboard dipped in liquefied brown rice.

But you can get beyond looks and so you agree to a phone conversation that could potentially turn into a date if he dazzles you with his personality.

The dude calls you up and for a few seconds seems normal, even coherent, besides the fact that he speaks about himself in third person and goes on and on about his childhood for the first 20 seconds of your conversation, and has a terrible habit of repeating stupid shit he's already said. You decide to let it slide assuming maybe he's a poor planner and didn't know what the fuck to say.

Before you have even had a full minute to decide how this person comes across, he informs you that he is funny, and lets on that he has Humor Bloggers Disease, the bloggers' STD of self-flattery usually based on the number of morons they can get to click on a banner in their ugly-ass sidebar. In mere seconds, his lexical frying pan just killjoyed your disappointed face.

Now that he has prematurely publicized his funniness, thereby insulting you by assuming you lack the wherewithal to decide what funny consists of, every single thing that now comes out of his unmemorable pie hole is examined with unmitigated scrutiny. This then renders whatever would have been even remotely funny no longer fucking funny at all.

Three fat jokes, one Muslim joke, one Mexican joke, and one retard joke later and you tell him:

You know what?









And you hang up the phone.

Less Crap, More Writing

Today's reviewee has been "blogging" since 2007. However, Kris Nair has not posted anything in exactly one month.

Which is mostly a relief.

I like to start things off pretty and with kind words, so let's do that first. Your title, less humans, more robots, fan-fucking-tastic my friend. I would just like to see a capital letter or four in there. Your template is clean and well organized, I love it and your archives? Eye candy, archive porn right there. I wanted to lick the screen, you know, had it loaded quickly for me. It didn't, but I'll forgive you.

Now for the bad. Kris is another in our long line of Indian blogging friends. He's not emo, cutting himself or crying out for universal understanding. Thank the heavens for that. However? He is a 'Mentor Capitalist' out of New Delhi. I'll let you click over to his blog to find out just what a mentor capitalist is, while I cough "bullshit" into my hand. I'll try not to let the fact that I was abused for years by a man from India, that was in a business very much like this, stand in the way of objectivity.

Ahem.

No, you know what? Fuck that. Let's stop right here. If your blog mostly consists of:

YouTube videos

Quotes from other people

Clever pictures and cartoons

Cut and pasted articles

Then stop asking us to review your shit. You are wasting our fucking time!







and








Suck it, Kris Nair, Suck it.

May I Soliloquise Whilst Kicking Your Shins?

Sigh.

I imagine that today's reviewee does that a lot. Sighs. Without an 'About Me' I had to wade through pages and pages to try to piece together who this person is. The very first post will have to do by way of explanation:

Recently, whilst speaking to a friend about being bored, she suggested that I should start an online journal where I could soliloquise about whatever subject I wanted without having to worry if anyone was interested. So here I am, writing the first entry in what will, no doubt, become an epic collection of my various ramblings and opinions.

For Christmas I was given a fridge magnet that read: ‘Everyone is entitled to my opinion’, which I took to be an indication that, at least in my family’s eyes, I am a highly opinionated person, with no interest in keeping my ideas to myself. So perhaps this journal will not only serve to alleviate my boredom, but also that of anyone who may otherwise have been at the end of one of my rants.

So, let us begin…

Well now, isn't that just dripping with sneering and pretentious use of the English language? Having a strong command of written language is something of a novelty these days, which after having it kicked into my front teeth by the combat boots I suspect this blog wears, I might just be okay with that. I don't know what kind of footwear the actual author wears, but I do know it is not high heels. She's made that clear.

The template is drab and dreary, which is actually suiting. The font is tiny and does not encourage a painstaking wading-through of the reviewee's seemingly self-important views on the world. All of which come across as if they were conceived while sitting in front of her computer, maybe even while looking out an open window. I just had a recurring feeling that this person prefers to sit and form opinions about life rather than going outside to actually live it. She studies the world rather than taking an active part in it.

While, it may be unfair for me to make such a sweeping generalization about this person, I don't feel badly for it, because I read page after page and I still feel like calling you 'this person'. I know all about every minute detail of how you feel about all things feminist, and your bantering conversation style, but I still don't feel like I know YOU. It all comes across as being cold and robotic. And yet, I think that might just be who you really are. I just hope that's not the case.

I do believe the friend that suggested you start a blog was right to do so, and probably had very good reason. However, asking us to review it is just mean. It's mean, because you see, I feel it's necessary to sit here and read rant after rant. Why? Because that is how I produce a fair review. Now, given that you realize that not everyone wants to be privy to your ramblings, why the hell did you do this to me? I suspect it's because you are selfish, egotistical, smug, inherently full of yourself and perhaps even a tad cheeky. That is how it all comes across to your reader. Did you really want someone else's opinion? It appears as if you only value your own.

You are writing for all the right reasons, but you might consider keeping it to yourself. After all, you probably ARE the only one intelligent enough to understand all the minutiae that composes your thoughts and opinions.








I wanted to award you the Abercombie Poser rating, but you mean it, you really mean all of it. You 'fun sucked' my day.

Chronicles of Hernia

Case No. 02 of 2009
India Chronicles vs. AAYSR
Per Crowley, J.

Is it Sheer Coincidence that my first Two Reviews here are of blogs written by Sad Old Bongs* (Bongs = Bengalis, for the benefit of all non-Indians)? Or are my Brethren On The Bench trying to tell me I ought to get rid of my South-Indian Fetish and chase some Bong Tail instead? Oh well, onward, Christian Soldier.

You may notice that a lot of words in the paragraph above are unnecessarily capitalized. Well, that’s only one of the many problems that plague India Chronicles, our latest victim. In short, this blog bored me more than the 40 pounds of litigation brief currently lying on my desk.

India Chronicles is written by one Taposh Chakraborty, who claims to be a reporter of sorts. Whatever it is he reports on, he sure doesn’t do it on his blog. If you can call it a blog at all, that is. Once you wrestle your way past the ten millionth panel of his Tota-Myna (Parrot-Mynah) comic, and his tangential poetry, you realize that this gentleman of letters hasn’t written much at all and what was there wanted to make me tear my eyeballs out.

I wanted to go Timothy McVeigh on TC’s arse, but I have a headache the size of Indo-China after reading his blog, so I’ll just get down to brass tacks.
Will the Petitioner please rise?

1. Your template. Hang on, what template?

2. When you use the word ‘Chronicles’ as part of the title of a blog or any other piece of writing, you are generally expected to chronicle SOMETHING, which, in itself, is a hard enough task. But, when you decide to call your blog ‘India Chronicles’, you up the stakes all the way to Mars. Chronicling an entire country is what only newspapers can do with any amount of success, and you, my dear blogger, are not a newspaper. Not even a newsletter. I’ve seen public notices that are more entertaining and informative. So, ditch the title, because it just doesn’t stick.

3. Now that we’re past the flaccid title, where’s the writing, friend? Oh, sure, there’s a bunch of comic strip-y panels (which are roughly as funny as root canals without anesthesia), and there’s some very obtuse poetry, but nada when it comes to writing. One post on dogs, another one on patenting, and a third one that meanders from chimpanzee behavior into karma and genetics. Fun stuff. Really. Oh, and your views on international politics and diplomacy need an honorary mention at this point:

Why am I writing all this historical stuff ? This myopic eurocentricism is by now well known . After Korea , Vietnam , Iraq , even BBC openly calls its work as “embedded” journalism – not for nothing it is funded by British Foreign Office ; and brazen American`s used to schedule Iraq bombings according to CNN/NBC news schedules! No wonder America has not won any of its wars after WWII. So , why all this now ?

You call this chronicling? I call it whining. Comrade, communism died while you were writing poetry.

4. Are the readers of your blog geriatric or of failing eyesight? No? Then why are most of your posts in this font size? Come to think of it, no two posts on your blog are the same font size or the even same font. Does WordPress hate you that much? Are you aware that you can just type out the post in MS-Word and cut-paste it into the blog’s compose page to avoid these funny-sized posts? A word of advice. In the unlikely event that people do read your blog, the least you can do is make it easier to read.

5. If the jumbo font-size wasn’t bad enough, your posts never quite seem to end. For example, it took 21 punches on my laptop’s Page Down key to reach the end of this masterpiece. And this post is in, what, size 8 font? AND it’s not actually posted, it’s a JPEG! Look, if it takes an entire weekend to go through 10 of your posts, then very frankly, I’d rather read an accountancy manual.

6. It’s been said a gazillion times before on this site, and I’ll say it again – EDIT, EDIT, EDIT. Your writing is rambling, tedious, and full of typos and grammatical errors. And may I revisit the dangers of over-capitalization? As a former corporate lawyer, who’s had his knuckles rapped several times for errant capitalization, I say this – Capital Letters = The opening of a sentence, proper nouns and defined terms. Any other sort of capitalization is as Irritating as an Overdose Of Ellipses And Idiots who Wiggle Their Fingers while talking to Emphasize Ellipses. Look at this last sentence. Don’t you feel like beating me up?

7. Your poetry. In my book, if it isn’t Ted Hughes, E. A. Poe, or Ogden Nash, then it isn’t poetry. You, Sir, are neither of the above. For better or verse, if you must broadcast your poetry, why not post it on a separate page, like this young lady, and spare us the torture, eh? It boggles the mind that someone has published two volumes of your dribblings (on the other hand, J. K. Rowling managed to hook a publisher, so why not you). But is it imperative that you scan the lot and slap it on the internet? This is cruel and unusual punishment, counsel. I mean, look what poetry did to Sylvia Plath. (As you can see, I hate poetry).

8. Cairo is not a suburb, and it is certainly not an ‘Asiatic city suburb’.

9. Also, Post 1, dated 21.11.2008, and Post 2, dated 26.12.08. “Repeated with larger fonts, as asked for by readers”. This is criminal.

I have nothing further to add. This Court, therefore, grades you thusly:

Popat.
‘Nuff said.

*Ok, so the first one wasn’t old and wasn’t really sad either, but still.

I Loved The Part When Jesus Got Bitch Slapped.

Welcome, welcome, my loyal followers. Let us prey.

First, I would like to take a moment to talk about life's little wonders. The moments in life where everything in the universe lines up perfectly. This week, I'm having one such moment. An opportunity to really shine in the hearts of men, and in the pants of women. Today, you are going to witness the blog reviewers' equivalent of winning the Powerball. Seriously, a moment of silence before the first lightning clap.

Today, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to Seven. Oh my, Seven. Oh my. Dear, dear Seven. I love your template. It reminds me of a classroom. I felt like I was about to really get schooled. The woodgrain desks, the chalkboard greens and chalk whites, I felt like you had something to teach me. I am happy your layout is wood, it will burn well. You believe your soul will go to heaven, I am here to tell you your blog is going to hell. Horrible. I wept.

I always loved Sunday School: the stories, full of miracles and supernatural oddities. I wish the guys that wrote the bible all had blogs. Them guys can write like nobody's business. You, however, cannot. No feeling, nothing. I dare any of the readers here at Ask to find something heartfelt or at the least, introspective. I couldn't. Look, Seven, you tell us that you express yourself better through typing. Bullshit. There is no way on earth that you could possibly do a worse job expressing yourself in person. Hellen Keller could at least give funny looks. What are you hiding, Seven? I want to know. Mostly because it has to be some killer sick shit. Really, you must be a twisted wretch of some sort if you feel the need to conceal yourself completely on a blog. I would give my left toe for a hit of acid and thirty seconds in your imagination. Oh, fuck, who am I kidding? I wish I could pay you to stop. Stop with the Jack Handey quotes. I'm not linking them, they are all over your blog. Stop with the Grace nonsense. Stop it. Stop the 'back in my day' shit. Young lady, you're not even thirty yet. Also, when you average about three comments per post, maybe asking your readers to write a post for you is a bad call. Go look, Askers, she did. More than once. She leaves the comment, her readers are charged with writing a post to correspond with the comment. Just stop, in the name of the Father.

and there will be blood...

Right here. Really, Seven, did you think you were going to get away with it? Really? Oh, you were hoping for Calamity, weren't you? No, I don't know what you were hoping for, submitting here. You dirty minx! You are hiding something, aren't you? You must have some real filth stored away, shamefully festering in a small corner of your being. Assuming your being is square. Again this is just wishful thinking and unfortunately for you, well, you're a big boring girl with a big boring blog. Listen, I love zombie movies. Zombies are badass. But I will be MeDamned if I ever trust any part of my being to a Jewish Zombie. You know the crowd here, you knew this was coming, and I just watched 'Religulous' last week so put on your sports bra. Your shit's about to get boxed, In the name of The Son.

Your 'About Me' page was a disgrace to human thought. Nowhere, in this abomination, did you tell anyone who you are. I know your siblings' names. That's about it. The majority of your 'About Me' is laced with Jesus. Trust me, I'm familiar with his profile. So is the majority of the fucking earth. Trying to love Jesus? Really? There is no 'try', Seven, only 'do'. You're either in or you're out. Are you waiting for a second date? Don't, I just texted with him, and he's not interested. Sorry. Askers, I apologize, this one could not be saved. Unlike Pilate, I find guilt in this blogger. I find fear. I find that her twitter updates are more profound than any of her blog entries.

I will take my gloves off now, dearest Brooke. I disliked your blog. I fucking hated it. I found myself wanting to gouge out my eyes, dip them in gasoline, place them back in my head and start singing 'Georgia On My Mind'. Yet, this is one of my longest reviews to date. Why? Because you brought your magic into it. Your stupid, 'Guns and Country First' Magic. Your filthy fucking blind obedience to the most horrible thing man has ever created: Organized Religion. Shame on you, bitch, for fucking doing this. I was raised with God-Down-The-Throat. At least what I was fed was entertaining. Fuck. Go visit my friend, Pistol Pete. He is a writer, and a christian, and a human, all at the same time. Look at his blog. You would be much better off studying him and his blog. Because whatever you are studying now is not helping you. There is no hope for your blog. It will never be entertaining. Never. Yours is a life that I am glad YOU are living, and no one else. I was appalled that you thought so lowly of your saviour that you would bring him down with your blog. My bad, LL Cool Jesus just disowned your existence. Ain't life a bitch sometimes, Brooke?

Oh, and you have just been reviewed by this Holy Ghost. I will be more than available, and much nastier if you care to come around to dispute my review. I'm giving your blog a rating. Here: please buy a vowel and a spirit. Go fuck yourself, you 'abercrombie posing', 'flaming finger'- loving, 'meh' -inducing fuck. The Amish wouldn't take your boring ass.

Amen.

So when you see her standing there...she won't be wearing underwear

So this dude comes up to you in a bar. The first thing you notice is that he's wearing a stupid hat, and has his fingernails painted black, and then you realize that it looks like he had his hair done by the same people that used to style Cyndi Lauper.

And you think, "What the hell is he wearing? What heterosexual man would ever be caught dead wearing a purple velvet blazer and ankle boots? Please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me."

Your attempt to redirect him with mind powers fails. Like a mosquito, he unerringly hones in on you, coming right up into your business and invading your personal space with his buzz.

And that seems bad enough, but then he opens his mouth.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Your doelike eyes stare into his headlights, stunned by the fact that this tool has singled you out as if you have "pick me, douche" scrawled on your forehead.

"Ummm, come again?"

"Are you okay?" he asks again, more slowly this time.

"Sure," you say, turning away, slightly, to offer him your teflon-coated shoulder of doom.

"I just wondered," he says, breathing from his mouth, "because that must have been a long fall from heaven." He chokes on his own laughter.

You smile unsmilingly, and turn fully away from him, stifling his enthusiasm with indifference. He waits a while, then says, "Hey." You ignore him. "Hey," he repeats, a bit more loudly. You wish for him to leave.

"Fucken bitch," he mutters under his breath as he turns and splooges away, back to his corner.

Problems with this blog:
1) Hideous template
2) Ten million ads.
3) Humor that stopped being humorous when I was about 15.
4) FUCKING TRIES TOO HARD AND FAILS MISERABLY.

In short, I offer you the following site description, from the author himself:

WARNING:
This blog may or may not contain adult themes and may or may not be suitable for small children or nuns. Scary evil people and axe murderers will find this blog enjoyable.
If your are a small kid and you've somehow come across this site then make sure you tell all your friends about it, it will make you popular and rich!

We Don't get paid so make sure you leave a comment, subscribe, Stumble, Digg and all that other stuff. Fame and possible future profits are our award!
If you forget you might die, seriously its happened before, maybe.

Did I mention its a humor blog?

If you have to tell people that it's a humor blog, it isn't. Please stop polluting the blogo-sphere with your yak shit. This is one blog that should have been killed in utero before it was ever birthed in puke and sweat onto the interwebs.

All apologies

I'm sorry, Rachel, that the universe picked the one reviewer who loathes fluffy, empty-headed suburban chicks whose brains have apparently been hulu'ed by the hot Florida sun with a special passion verging on virulent nausea, for you.

I'm sorry that your blog suffers in comparison to that of a high school student's in terms of depth and creativity.

I'm sorry that I loathe pink polka dots with the icy hatred that Hilary Clinton's vagina reserves for Bill's wandering penis.

I'm sorry that I reserve a special disdain for women who can't cook, and in fact, don't even know what a clove of garlic is.

In short, I'm sorry you got me, because I FUCKING HATE YOUR BLOG.

Should you have received another reviewer, they might have been tempted to cut you some slack.

I am not so inclined.

Your blog is everything that is wrong with the blogosphere, in specific, and humanity, in general.

Who would read this hot mess? I can't find anything, at all, in your blog that makes me care about you or want to know you. It's all superficial nonsense, like what kind of shoes you want, or what you ate for dinner, or your daughter's vomit, without anything REAL.

I want you to do something. Read this post.

Then, read this:

The world is so much bigger than me. & in a way, it took me until just now, on july 13, 2007, at 1:10 in the morning to figure that out. I'm at my dad's apartment laying in bed and I start thinking about an article I read on myyearbook today. It was about a teen who had become a vegetarian. That isn't what made it so memorable. It was the part about how many fast food restaurants like Mcdonald's are paying to clear-cut the rainforest so they can graze cattle and other animals for their food products. That's terrible yes, but then a few minutes ago, i went onto google and searched for rainforest clearcutting. I came to a site, that even though it's information should be extremely reassuring, did not help my state of mind whatsoever. I'm not sure what to believe about global warming, and Clear Cutting, and Fossil Fuels. I want so much to believe that global warming is just a natural stage in the Earth's but what if it isn't? It just freaks me out. I mean, I'm 13, I'm confused, I'm not sure what to believe and i'm worried. Honestly, I cared more about finding a boyfriend and being with friends more than i cared about things going on across the world. I'm just a shallow teenager Lol. How depressing.

Guess what, Rachel? Your blog just had it's ass kicked by a teenaged blog. My teenager, for the record.

Sure, I'm filled with parental pride, but I also want you to see how your blog starts at mundane and never leaves it. There is never any point, there is never any growth, and there is never any introspection or reflection. You have less depth than a middle-schooler.

Your blog, in fact, reminds me of a conversation I eavesdropped on between two teenagers in my backseat this weekend.

Sarah: "I look around at life, and I have all these thoughts going on inside my head at once, and I feel like my head is hardly big enough to hold them all in. And, I look at Jessica, and I see that her life is incredibly simple. We're sitting down to eat, and inside her head, as clear as day, her brain is saying, 'Pull out the chair. Don't slip. Sit down.' And, I wonder what it would be like to only be thinking at one thing at a time, but maybe I will never know."

My daughter: "On the other hand, Jessica hardly ever falls off of chairs like we do."

Rachel: Your blog is Jessica's brain. I bet you never fall off of chairs. However, your blog sucks balls.

Here's my advice:

Go to facebook.
Create a profile.
Talk about shoes.
Give the blogosphere a rest.

That's all. I apologize for hating your blog and everything it stands for in my head, but I can't help myself.

Don't be so optimistic

You say you will not die, I think you're kidding yourself.



Our most recent volunteer writes, about himself, and his blog:

I haven’t summoned the guts to write with my full intellect...but instead, I often succumb to the subtle fear of marginalizing my audience by saying things that I know aren’t popularly read enough to support my own blogging ambitions.

Tell the truth: you hate him already, don't you?

This blog is an excruciating read, exacerbated by advertisements imbedded in every post, and in both sidebars. Jesus Christ on a buttermilk biscuit, I hate this blog. It's smarmy. That's the word for it. Clearly, this dude thinks he's Dave Eggers. And, maybe he is.

But I already struggled through Dave's book, and hence, I'm not at all inclined to brave the blinky ads and self-congratulatory prose you've thrown online like feces on a wall.

So, let's see:

Growing up sucked for you. Join the club. I bet if you put 50 bloggers in a room, you'd find that 40 of them dealt with major shit growing up, and we're still working out our issues online, or we're still in the midst of dealing with serious life issues. You aren't doing anything that other writers haven't done more of, and better.

You have a high IQ. Wow. Color me impressed. If mine weren't similarly high, and if so many of my blogging peers weren't of the same caliber, I'd perhaps think you were something. But, high IQs on the blogosphere are like Abercrombie attire in your local high school...they're everywhere. And, frankly, they don't impress me much.

So, here are some of your issues:

1. You have a fucked up self-perception. You write:

Even so, there is, as there is with many men, a second me. There is a me who wants to run off and conquer lands and pretend I’m king, even if for just a day or two. In other words, I want to make something of myself. I want be somebody. For a long time now, I have been a nobody.

This week though, I am somebody again.

Wrong, Einstein. You were ALWAYS somebody, and you always will be somebody, even if your self-loathing for that person you once were poisons everything you write insidiously. And until you OWN that person you were, and are, and always will be, your blog will always suck. In fact, I bet you were a better person in elementary school than you are today.

Education and a job title don't make you somebody. They are simply what the shallow people use to quantify folks into little boxes of worthy and not worthy.

But, viewing life in that way is inherently wrong. And, if you do become a teacher, you will be an utter dickhead if you continue to hold to that perspective, and you will seriously mind-fuck your students. Frankly, I've read blogs of homeless people that were more substantive and interesting than yours.

2. You need therapy. BADLY. And in your case, no, your blog is NOT enough to compensate for your major issues. You're carrying around your past like a huge trainload of baggage. Guess what? Your life at this point should not be defined by the taped up glasses you wore in elementary school or how much weight you could lift in college. The fact that these things play such a major role in the person you are today is not only uninteresting to read, it's actually disturbing. Your autobiography makes my skin crawl. You remind me of a guy I once dated that had serious mental health issues, verging on narcissistic psychosis.

3. You're still really pissed at your dad, and wow...how long has it been since he died? Ten years or more? When do you think you might, I dunno, make an attempt at getting the fuck over it?

4. We aren't here for self-promoters who don't give us anything. Your "blog" is about getting a book deal or feeding your tremendously hungry ego, but it sure does nothing for me. So, I'd like to tell you as politely as possible to fuck off, because I really am peevish that you submitted this to us.

I like a train wreck as much as the next girl, but I do not like your blog. Maybe some folks will, more power to them. But for me, I find it disturbing, and uncomfortable, and fucking sad as hell. You define yourself by what other people have done to you, and the size of your intellect, and papers you can put in frames on a wall.

I define people by the size of their hearts. The end. And yours, in spite of your determination not to "settle," is strangely shrunken and broken and twisted and dark.

And seriously, fucked up.

I give you this:



If only you had a heart...then you might have a real blog. Also, for being an ad whore who is using our blog for your own filthy lucre without delivering up some substantive goods:

I've stopped believing in politics and fairy tales

I voted this morning, and now I feel like a dirty dirty whore, and not even in the good way. Nothing good is going to come of this election, I can feel it in my bones. This morning, it was like choosing between a crap sandwich, smothered in cum, and a barbecued turd, smothered in boogers with a side of earwax. Fuck me.

Okay. This may be the shortest possible review in history, because I am not in a good mood, and I hate today's blog.

I'm going to do this in simple sentences, because I think that will be the best form of communication with this guy.

1. Your header image is awful. Please tell me you didn't pay for it.
2. I spent 20 minutes scrawling through your clip art, looking for something of worth, and couldn't find anything.

This isn't a blog. I have no idea why you submitted here, but this is lameness personified. If you have teenage children, let me state clearly and for the record, that they hope no one EVER finds your site. It's terrible. It's the worst possible unholy intersection of myspace with farq. And not the good parts of farq, either. The retarded bits. The people who like your blog are the same ones who decorate their houses at Walmart and wear sweaters on Halloween with cheery chubby pumpkins on them. They aren't us.

People: If you have a "blog" like this, please don't submit here. We aren't interested in what you're doing, and you are an anal wart on the ass of the blogosphere. We wish your blog would die a slow, painful death involving mutilation and torture.

Please fuck off and die.

I was snifffin' a lot of gasoline at the time (4:06)

Once upon a time, I had the coolest neighbors in the world. And, once upon a drunken New Year's Eve, I introduced them to the White Stripes (and the rest is history) and they introduced me to the dancing outlaw. Take four randy couples, mix in several bottles of champagne and a dancing outlaw, and you have a party to remember.

All I know about West Virginia was given to me by Jesco. Until today, when I found myself face to face with Tor Herschman, who bills himself as the world's funniest iconoclast.

I had high hopes for a man who knew the term iconoclast and hailed from West Virginia, but apparently, Jesco is not the only one who's been sniffin' too much gasoline.

I never thought I say this, but I prefer a drunken, dancing, redneck, partially brain dead from inhalants backward ass country fuck to Tor.

Tor has his own fan club. It has 7 members. Compare this to Jesco White, who has 254 members in his fan club. Perhaps this is because Jesco White, and his on-again, off-again wife Norma, are at least interesting in a rednecky train wreck kinda way.

Tor has his own lingo, an stolen stew of synthetic dialect that feels counterfeited:

Since moi’s massive heart-attack and quintuple bypass surgery moi gets an occasional “Hope you’re alright” E sooooooo moi thought I’d tell you fine folks that moi may begin to blog post every season, or so, rather than each month.

You know, a manufactured dialect based upon the sounds of real Southern speech worked aight for William Faulkner, but you're no Faulkner. Your use of dialect is distracting, impossible to decipher, and inconsistent. Furthermore, it feels forced and amateurish, not to mention condescending.

It lessens the writing (which is fucking sadder than an emo kid who's lost his razor blades) and the chronic use of moi is annoying as fuck. This over usage of dialect comes across, more than anything, as a mockery of hill people and their speech.

My dad grew up in the Ozark Mountains, and his speech is a charming, gentle stew of country colloquialisms underlaid with the rich twang of the Missouri hill people. As a girl who grew up steeped in his accent and my own, Tor's ear for translating country speech comes across to me as about as sensitive as a fence post.

The content is piss poor, the blog layout design is non-existent, and the writing is a huge pile of festering manure.

Back to square one, blog nooblet.

You don't get to use dialect until you've mastered basic English and can write well in it.I always try to read at least a couple of months of posts for the blogs that I review, but I couldn't force myself to do it.

This is a pustulating scab of pretentious twaddle on the nether regions of the internet. Instead of sniffing gasoline, Tor should drench himself in it and light his corncob pipe.

Here, let me be of assistance:

Genital Hospital

WARNING: TODAY'S BLOG HAS ADULT CONTENT. BEFORE YOU CLICK THIS LINK, YOU SHOULD BE AWARE THAT THIS BLOG HAS CONTENT THAT IS NOT SUITABLE FOR ANYONE WHO:

1) Is under 18.
2) Is Working.
3) Thinks they will be working anytime soon.
4) Has a weak stomach.
5) Worries about making baby Jesus cry.
6) Has genital phobias.
7) Doesn't want to GET a genital phobia.
8) Is nauseated by naked saggy tits.
9) Is regularly offended by Key's/DPH's blorgy.
10) Ever wants to eat kielbasas again.

Charlotte Sometimes, guest reviewer here.

I think we all know who assigns the blogs to be reviewed around here. And, though I love her, I think she has it out for my prudish ass. You see, I’ve only reviewed a few times but somehow I get the naked bitches. And while Nurse Myra isn’t necessarily naked, her blog is as scholastically disturbing as seeing my corseted Algebra teacher giving the Chemistry professor a reach around. My brain is trying to process things it just wants to reject.

My first mistake when starting my review of this pit of deviance was actually reading the ‘About’ page. Evidently, it has little do with the actual blog. Nurse Myra states that she lost her lover to cancer and has a gay son. Naively, I imagined that I was digging into a meaty blog that would bring both laughter and tears into my blog reviewing days to come.

Not fucking likely. Oh there is plenty of meat on this blog, some of it even shocking and fucking creepy. But, there is little reference to the deceased lover and their journey through the cancer battle. The gay son was mentioned when I journeyed back to the blog’s early days and then something changed. Nurse Myra became a schlong monger. Maybe she always was one. I don’t know. I don’t care.

I’m not going to lie to you about anything, except my virginity. I only spent about an hour perusing this blog and then I realized that my stomach hurt and giving vaginal birth to an Audi seemed more enticing than continuing. Furthermore, I’m such a dolt I had to look up the definition of gimcrack and even after I did I wasn’t amused. Showy indeed.

Nurse Myra talks about herself in bloody third person, which is so pompous and grating that I would rather yank out my own breast implants with rusty salad tongs than to keep reading this freakish, cut and paste collage of perversity. And, don’t get me wrong here. Some of my very favorite people are perverts.

I’m going to skip any template advice and suggest that perhaps a course in marketing might be necessary. What you are selling is not what you advertise. I realize there is a place out there for sex blogs that read like college level textbooks. There is, right?

Now that I hate myself for having to spew forth this much venom, it’s time for a rating:



Basically, what I’m saying here is that I want to kick her in the genitals and ask for the big chunk of my life back that her fucked up blog stole from me.

White Trash Diva

I come from a long line of poor white trash. My dad's family grew up in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, living in beat-up trailers on farms full of rocks back in the holler. I can't hear Ozark Mountain Jubilee without wanting to take a road trip home on Route 66, through those twisty red roads covered with flint and oak leaves, embellished with black-eyed susans and orange dust.

So trust me when I say that I have a high level of tolerance for rednecks. In many ways, as a girl who grew up shoveling manure and riding in rodeos, I am one, still, and it doesn't lay very far underneath my corporate persona (such as it is). Anyone who knows me in real life (Calamity, for instance), can affirm this. I'm not that ladylike, and I'd just as soon be leaping off a platform at the local spring with the teenage boys as sitting here in my office in a dress. Or, being shot at, that's always good, too.

So, I didn't expect today's blogger to get on my last damn nerve, but she did. First off, let me say that ANYONE who refers to herself as a princess, queen, or diva should have been killed at birth. Nothing good ever comes of these kinds of women, and I almost always hate them without exception. And, when you tell me in your ugly, blurry header that "all I know how to do is bitch," I want to rassle you down and rip your titties and tiara off.

That's never a good start, is it? You know an ass reaming is fixing to follow, just like Arkansas boys follow a herd of sheep, mooning after a hot date.

Item 1: The redneck corporate persona wears thin for me, darlin. I call bullshit. You're just trying too damn hard. It's too shallow, there isn't enough depth to your posts. I don't buy that the person you put on your blog is the real you. I don't get why a grown woman would feel a need to prove how much she drinks and smokes and swears, and how that person is the REAL her. Is it so you can show you haven't sold your soul to the company man? Mostly, I think you're lost, searching for an identity, and glomming on to whatever comes easiest. You aren't willing to put it out there and post anything of substance and meaning, so you rely on the tired old "you might be a redneck" bullshit. Dammit. Can I get a fucking amen on how sick I am of that particular persona?

Item 2: I hate your template. Your header image is ugly, I can't read the font, and I loathe your tagline. I hate how many goddamn graphics you have on your blog. I hate it that you have your post labels directly under your post titles, which is fucking confusing as hell. Move that shit down to the bottom of your post, like any sane person. I hate your cluttered sidebar. Clean that shit up. Follow the advice here. Look at some of our well-reviewed blogs. You can find them here.

Item 3: Unless you're posting pictures of a ram's ginormous testicals, lay the fuck off. I'm setting a strict limit of 1 picture per post for you. You aren't a 12-year-old on myspace. I'm assuming you've had a computer for a while now. Grow up.

Item 4: I hate your content. I hate the fact that you don't put your writing into actual paragraphs.

Don't ever say this about your kids again:

Another bad habit is that I love to torment the children. They are really turds and since they don’t do what they are supposed to, I feel it my duty to make them as miserable as possible.

Not to sound like a tight ass, but your children aren't turds. If they are, the blame lays squarely on your doorstep. Being a parent is a privilege. People who down-talk their families piss me off. It's low class.

Also, don't reference your darling grandpa immediately following a paragraph about pole dancing.

Stop fucking bragging about being a drunk bitch. That went out of style when you were 21. At our age (near 40), it makes you look retarded.

Listen, I'm the girl who once made out with my cousin after a funeral (his dad's). I get redneck. Do you get how despicable your content is when I'm calling you low class?

In short, in a half hour of reading, I could not find a single goddamn post of yours that didn't piss me off in some way. I wouldn't read your blog again if you paid me to serve as CFO. In short, your blog makes me want to find new and different places to punch a bitch. I've done uterus, ovaries, and kidneys to death, so maybe I'll start with your appendix and then swing a bag of quarters at your thighs.

Grow up, sweetie. Your blog lacks any goddamn semblance of class, depth, talent, or any other thing that would interest me.

I rate you:



You're not even a good train wreck.