This Review Is Revolting

This, friends, is Colby Marshall:

"If you enjoy mindless ramblings, you’re in for a treat, because they are my specialty."

Yes, and beside that mortifying "about me" is a picture of a girl hugging a cat.

This is as toxic as blogs get, folks: a young(ish?) girl writing trifling, clunky, inane tripe with enthusiasm; it’s like reading a church-newsletter written for people with brain-tumors. I’m more intrigued by the fuckstain I just left on my mattress, and I’ve studied that thing, like, 100 times. It’s neat, like a Rorschach-test of bodily-fluids, and I think I see a butterfly!

Try to get through a post that’s longer than a paragraph, I fucking dare you. It feels as though I’ve shown up to a kegger with a cask of whiskey and found everyone sitting in a circle singing Kumbaya and playing duck-duck-goose. I’d rather listen to my father admit on his deathbed to a life of pederasty than read the stultifying muck of this blog. If I had a kid who wrote this as a 4th grade creative-writing project, I’d wad it up into a ball, jam it under his bed, and light his room on fire.

This is serious, people. You say "sweet girl who’s not doing anyone any harm", I say "demon let loose on earth to diminish expectations of creativity"; you say "oh, it’s not that bad", I say "it’s worse than shaving my face with a cheese-grater"; you say, "Jesus Christ, Nutjobber, why d’you gotta be such a fucking asshole?", I say "it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye, and both of mine are flat-lining after spending an evening combing through this mess trying to find something to interest me", and none of our clever back-and-forth would do anything to diminish my point: I don’t want to read this blog any more than I want a quack with a funny hat doing my vasectomy, I don’t care how nice either of them are.

I would feel bad about being so mean were I not being truthful; this is kind of like a ten-year-old with a newborn-kitten losing her way and suddenly finding herself down a darkened alley staring Mike Tyson in the face. Does anyone believe that ol’ Iron Mike would turn off his crazy for a second and help the kid find her way home? No, he’d eat the kid and then he'd skull-fuck the cat.

So, perhaps we should look at this as an Ask and Ye Shall Receive cat-head skull-fucking; I’m sure Colby is a nice girl and everything else and she’s the best and everyone loves her and blah fucking blah, but the internet is a big, bad place, with lots and lots places for us to go and get our read-on, and this piffling little drop in the bucket is miles away from anything I would find even remotely entertaining.

Hey, if you’re looking for qualifiers, here’s one: to me, this blog is fucking poison, a gaggle of grungy hypodermic-needles overflowing with radioactive-strychnine poked directly into the pupils of my eyes. However, if you’re the sort that enjoys reading about Santa Claus in red-text, Halloween in orange-text, or you feel bold enough to careen through the EIGHTEEN Miley Cyrus-labeled posts, well, have at it.

For trusty ol’ Nutjobber though, dadgum it, she gets one of these:



That’s right: no tips, no suggestions, no advice... just a flaming finger and the relief of never, ever having to suffer through that blog again.