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.