Torn Apart Like a Hanky at a Snot-Party

It’s another fine, frosty Canada Day here at the Nutjobber Estate, and though there is snow to be shoveled and wood to be thrown on the fire, well, these are things best left to the overall-expertise of the girlfriend, Nutjobbette; I have a blog to review, and I should get to it before the cold either fogs up my monitor or makes it too difficult to type through these geese-down gloves.

Therein lies the problem: I have no idea why The TrailerParks Farm would submit to us. On top of Ask being the place-to-be if one opts to have their blog fucking torn apart, I, personally, am suffering from a knot in my left calf that feels like a fist fitted with brass-knuckles pushing through the fine, put-upon fibres of my poor, poor leg-muscle; combine that with the sub-zero temperatures of Canada, and you’ve got yourself a mean-ass reviewer with little to no patience.

Firstly, it looks awful: The text-size is so massive that even if someone managed to shrink it down to the point where the entire blog could be grafted onto the head of a pin, I would still be able to read it, unaided, from the furthest reaches of outer-space; the colours chosen, if twisted in a blender, would resemble spewed stomach-bile from the diseased-innards of a three-legged weasel afflicted with late-stage bowel-cancer; the blank, endless space at the bottom of the blog made me feel as though I was staring into a void of such abrupt nothingness that fear gripped the back of my neck like the cold, dead hands of a demon who had finally come to collect that soul I promised him years ago. Yes, there are widgets & sidebar clutter, serious no-no’s, but they’re like graffiti on a condemned-building: the whole thing needs to be blown up, so why sweat the small stuff?

Secondly, the content is reminiscent of those year-end Christmas cards written, presumably, to update an extended family on recent happenings, pictures provided; this, for example, was written so breathlessly that I want to send them an oxygen-mask, and I can’t even begin to comprehend what this means:

"Olin has been the best moral support to me this last year, whenever I need a pick me up, he's only a click away, and nothing makes you feel better than name calling and ugly face with a ten year old boy."

Good gravy, I just read that sentence to Nutjobbette, and she shrieked and chased me around the house swinging an iron-plated cross; she might have said something about castration, but I managed to quell the uprising with an electric-blanket and the idea that she go salt the ice on the front steps.

I can’t, in good conscience, risk another attack by posting more links; this blog is unfit for public-consumption, and, as such, gets a almost solely because the act of reading it aloud brought terror and shame upon the entire Nutjobber clan.