Pearl necklace me with your mojo, I'm a needin a little inspiration. - Formerly Fun
Unicorns can be cool as shit, like on Rassles sweatshirt, or they can be like horses with strap-ons on their heads, which might be kinda cool too, depending on your bestiality tendencies. - Blue Streak
I'd do Rahm Emanuel. I'd like to be the chief of his staff. - Calamity
I never cease to be amazed by man's need to draw more fire upon himself. Asking the reviewers to 'hurry up and expose my genius' is a death sentence around here. - Keywork
Also, best "label" ever: "Get your tongue out of my mouth I'm kissing you goodbye" a la Miss Missives.
I may have missed some genius, feel free to shoot it all over me.
Have you ever fantasized about a woman who has an American doll costume in her role playing menagerie? Have you ever thought razor sharp wit and drunken buffoonery are a super sexy combo? Do you look like a little like this guy? Then sidle up and spend a few minutes with this week's guest reviewatrix, Rassles. She'll organize your drunk choo-choo party, or best you with her Live Band Karaoke. Then if you're really good, she'll make you some of Chicagoland's best stroganoff, what what. -Miss Missives
Okay, so sometimes you have a coworker, and she’s all like, trying to set you up with a guy she’s friends with because he’s “totally funny” and her “face hurt from laughing so hard” and you’re thinking, “Finally, someone with which to create a comedic duo that would rival Nichols and May,” but then you meet him he’s kind of cautious, and sometimes savvy, but not the raucous laugh factory you expected, so instead of hitting it off with an amusing guy you’re all shattered and grumpy and forlorn and get really, really drunk to make up for it.
That’s kind of how I feel about Free the Unicorns. And I mean, sure, technically the preceding story in no way relates to why I’m reviewing a blog today, but fucking whatever.
This is a comedy blog. Chowner is a man who wants to be very, very clever. And sometimes he is, really, but unfortunately, the skill is usually buried in posts that are exhausting in simplicity, or full of overused pop culture commentary and an abundance of obvious lines that were funny when I was twelve.
Still, you’re lucky, because I’m currently undergoing a second adolescence.
His writing is intentionally distancing and sarcastic, which I have no problem with, because he’s not obnoxious about it. There’s a thin line separating satire from sadism, and he doesn’t cross it. Still, if you’re looking for a blog bleeding personal details, you won’t find it here. This blog is like the auxiliary gym for C-Team at The Onion, or Something Awful’s slightly annoying but surprisingly engaging and informed little brother. You won’t find thought-provoking exhibitions on the human condition, and sometimes the humor is recycled and obvious, but there’s this artful wit lurking in the corners that makes me want him to be hilarious.
Chowner, in nearly every post, your last line is the best line, especially with the dialogue posts. But if your goal is banter: watch your pacing. Clip things down, because you’re dragging your rhetoric throughout the middle of the posts. The bitch of it is, if you cut out half of the crap, focus on the title and the last several lines you crank out, we’ll find prowess in your restraint.*
Your lists are strong, and some are downright crazy awesome, but I’m partial to lists, and I feel like this is where your personality inches closer to your readers. I know you’re not journaling here, in fact it feels like you’re building up a little comedic resume for that McSweeney’s submission, but slipping in little cubes of you will give your humor more edge and less monotony. Own your fucking jokes, personalize them, spit ‘til they shine. And I want to hear more about your failing one-man crusade for Unicorn Freedom, because somewhere in your past you had to have some conversation of hilarity to inspire such temerity.
The template is simple and has a horny pony, so you know. Win.
Using my unparalleled powers of inference, I have determined that Chowner is male, married to Sydney Bristow, and Canadian. I’m like motherfuckin’ Encyclopedia Brown. Give us an “About Me” page or I’ll find you and shave off your eyebrows in your sleep. And if you think that’s a hollow threat, I can introduce you to a Schick Quattro and a pair of fisticuffs aching to attest to my resolve.
Next, post your archives. I know you’ve only been writing since September, but I still want to hit up your past posts because I am nosy, and I hate clicking “Older Entries” over and over and over again. Oh, and just don’t do that continuing post bullshit, because it’s irksome, and you know…Razors and Fisticuffs: The Fucking Sequel.
Seriously, Chowner, you’ve got some gold: don’t make us bitches dig for it.
For being funny and pissing me off about it, I give you
And for making me go all Philip Marlowe on trying to find out who you were and whether or not you were funny, you get this:
*As I’m writing this, I want nothing more than to go back to my own blog and cut all of my posts in goddamn half, just to prove a point.
We need to talk. Do you remember last week when you asked me if everything was okay and I said it was? I wasn't being honest with you and the truth is I can't do this anymore. Listen, it's been good getting to know you but I think we need some space. Maybe we should take a break, you know, see other people. It's just not going to work out between us and I really want what's best for you, for us. You deserve someone better, you know, someone who can love you the way you need to be loved, someone who can treat you right. I still care about you, but I don't feel the same way you do. I love you but I'm not in love with you. And let's face it, we're both so young, I just can't think about forever. Plus, work has been so busy, I really need to focus on my career right now—I just don't have time for a relationship. You understand don't you? It's me, it's not you. Really. We can still be friends right?
Oh, by the way, I fucked your sister.
Sincerely, The Internets ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Catherinette, breaking up is hard to do, no? Let Miss Missives state up front that it is you. We can smell the desperation dear, and in the blogging world as in the dating world, desperation is kryptonite. Posts like this one stink of it and then there's this one from Dec.10 :
"I am this close to pitching a fit, having a cow, and breaking some shit. What the fuck?? Yesterday I was number 5 of Humor Blogs, and now I’m not even listed! What the hell is that about?? Whose dick do you have to suck to stay in the god damned ranks??Seething with rage right now…"
Not being ranked in the Top 5 on Humorblogs really sent you into a tail spin? Really? We've reviewed a bunch of the 'humor blogs' and I can tell you from experience that what you don't have to have to be part of Humorblogs is humor. You link to no fewer than one of three other blogs on nearly every post. Humorblogs? Kizmeet? Twolia? Please don't settle for being mediocre in three places.
There are several things about your blog I don't like but here are the big ones. The first big no-no is having 'click to continue' posts. It would be irritating even if you were Chuck freaking Palahniuk but your intros aren't anywhere near attention grabbing enough to get away with it. This post I was actually inclined to read but the link to another site loaded so slow I gave up. There might have been some really good writing buried in your blog but I couldn't be bothered to link over to another site. The second thing that irked me is it would appear you are so inclined to get an award or be featured on other sites that you spend far too much time driving traffic and campaigning and far too little time writing.
I like that you have a countdown to the last time you had a peen in your vag on your homepage, and you use tabs well, however, your Cast of Characters at thirty, borders on unreadable and you need to pare down your sidebars, dump the calendar and move your Blog Roll to a tab.
There are things I like about you Catherinette. I liked this, while it wasn't exactly finely crafted, showed you have a sense of humor and wit about you. This was definitely TMI but gives me a sense of you. I like your Just the Tip Tuesday feature if for nothing more than a little man candy.
I can see what you're going for but it didn't connect for me. You're spreading yourself far too thin dear. You are not yet a talented or prolific enough writer to cast so many lines. You need to focus on your one blog and let the other ones go. You are both trying too hard and not putting enough effort into your writing.
I don't know if you'll be willing to do the things necessary to make your blog more readable but lucky for all of us, even if you don't, there are still plenty of fish in the sea. And when you get sloppy like this, give us a call and we'll be on you for a quickie hookup like white on rice.
I grew up in a small town in North Florida, and though that small town ain't so small anymore, it's still small enough for my surname to be recognized. Or at least so I fear, in my self-involved, self-aggrandizing manner. Hence my complete and total anonymity on the web. Well, almost complete and total. There are a select few who know the details of my identity, like Love Bites and a couple others. But I generally guard my name fiercely, for fear that the revelation of who I am will stifle my ability to write expressively, honestly, and with all those delightful, nasty bits. Because the minute folks know who I am, the instant people from my past start bobbing their heads in to take a gander at my deep, dark, dirties, well, I'll either stop writing or stop writing authentically. And that defeats the whole purpose of a blog. At least in my world.
Which is exactly what Love Bites and I discussed over drinks on Friday. Because here's where my world gets really, really small. My reviewee today: Sayre Smiles? I kinda know her brother.
I assume that Sayre found her way here through normal channels. Saw a review of a friend's blog or stumbled on us somehow and got hooked and gathered up the gumption to submit her site for a good, long reaming. So it is perhaps the perversion of the world to drop her site in my lap, out of all the reviewers at Ask.
I debated whether I should let that little tidbit out, whether it was opening myself up to intrusion and revelation that I'm just not ready for, will likely never be ready for. But I felt I owed it to posterity to come clean, since this will likely color my review. Or maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment, 'cause here it comes over the horizon. Watch. Someone's gonna find me and I'm gonna be embarrassed to all hell and have to close up shop.
Ah, shit.
Anyway. My paranoia aside, on to the review.
I typically read an entire blog when I review, but I couldn't with this one. Hello, prolific. Sayre has been blogging consistently since 2006. The template is blah, blah, blah, and for someone who's been blogging as long as Sayre has, I expect better. It's a standard Blogger template, and not one of their good ones, if such a thing exists. There's absolutely no personality, no individuality. Sayre, check out our FAQ for some links to resources for better templates. And don't tell me you don't know how 'cause surely someone can help you snazz the place up a bit.
I don't like the extra info that goes along with the blogroll -- it's overload. Sayre, put your blogroll on another page if you're going to do that; or, really, just put your blogroll on another page regardless. And since you have been blogging for so long, include months and years in your archives, and make them a drop down list. I had to keep clicking "Older Posts," which is a drag. There's no other navigation. Otherwise, good job on the lack of clutter. But we could use an About page, something to let us know up front who you are, who the people in your life are, and what you're blogging for.
Sayre is an entirely competent writer, good even. Everything is in its place, there's no stumbling or hiccups or overwriting or any of that. She has touching posts that are nicely written but long-ish, and mature, kind, and thoughtful posts. But there are too many memes and quizzes and Fun Monday hoo-ha crap.
Some posts make me think Sayre could write about anything, when maybe she shouldn't. Not that she doesn't write about roofing exceedingly well, but, I mean, who cares? These types of posts are good for family and friends to get updated, and a good record of what's going on in your life, but for the rest of the world, the rest of your audience? It's just white noise. Decently written white noise, but noise nonetheless.
There are lots of posts on the kid, which, ok, I don't get into because I'm a heartless non-breeder. And there are lots of pics that don't mean that much to me (although they did clue me into the fact that I know Matt) and lots of we did this and that and such and so. The reason for this is clear -- Sayre isn't writing for us. She's writing for herself and for her family and for posterity. And so the rest of us are on our own. We'll either deal with the log of her life because of the good stuff, or we'll go away. And I sense she doesn't much mind either way.
Her parents read her blog, and maybe that explains the very innocuous nature of it. It's extremely family-friendly, which I'm kind of not. Well, not online anyway. But there are nice things to be found here, and Sayre is a neat lady with interestinghobbies and a side gig that I've always, always wanted to try.
Bottom line, I like Sayre. Could be because I know so much of what she lives day-to-day because I live it, too -- I breathe the same air. But it's also because she is a dedicated writer, talented if a bit muffled. I get the feeling that, in spite of the acres and acres of posts, there's more to know. And I'd like to know these things. I'd like Sayre to get raw, to get creative, to show us more than the daily litany of activities and observances. There's lots of commentary but not a lot of exposition.
Sayre obviously blogs because she loves it, because she can't help it, and, for me, that is the best reason to blog. Because readers can tell when it's a chore, when a writer is struggling to get words up on the screen. But I can't shake the feeling that this dogged determination to write is hampered by who you let in. And I wonder what you might tell us, what you might show us, if we didn't know your details, if the people in your every day life didn't have a window on your world. It's a great irony, but by letting us know your identity perhaps you've stopped us from knowing you.
I open it up to the peanut gallery -- who do you let read your blog, and does it color your writing?
You know I am a mom, right? And sometimes, the mommy job requires that I bare little buttocks, and swat them soundly. Other times, it means taking a distraught child, curling her against my body, and offering what comfort I can with my words, my arms, and my love.
When you happen onto this blog, you'll immediately think, "fuck me with a chainsaw, another emo Indian kid blog." Don't. And, don't roll your eyes at me, either. I don't care much for student blogs, but for some reason, I want to take this girl, wrap my arm around her, and tell her that life will be okay.
New is hard. And, frankly, it sucks ass. You are living in a new town or new country, far away from all that is familiar. You want your mom to be there when you're sick. You want to walk down a familiar street. You want the friends who've known you for years. You want home, and all of the ten million tiny details that are encompassed by that word: the scent of home, the familiar faded curtains, the furniture that bears the scars of recurrent collisions with your body parts, the stain on the rug from red nail polish when you were 16.
Ms. Gruntle is young, and she's learning a hard lesson: once you leave, you can never really go home again.
Oh, you can go back to the same place, but you'll have changed, and so will that place. And, the people you knew there will have gone on in your absence, and they'll have changed, too. Some things will be the same, but there will always be jarring absences, strange pauses, stories you didn't participate in, and new and disconcerting shops, restaurants, houses, and people.
Welcome to Adulthood.
All you can really do, Ms. Gruntle, is document the journey. Fill your blog with all the details that you WANT to remember from the trip. What you don't write down will get lost: faded, fuzzy, and forgotten.
And, if you want to document your journey for the rest of us, do this:
1. Add an "About Me." I want to know why you are in the United States, what you hope to accomplish, and a bit more meat about who you are besides the fact that you run "like a mole." You don't have to give incriminating details (Calamity and I had a long convo about this very topic - blogging anonymity - over drinks on Fridya night). But, you do need to give the readers of your blog a backstory to fill in the gaps, so we know what the fuck you're talking about.
2. Give more details that are relevant to the story. Instead of telling us that you miss the smell of a particular place, tell us what the smell is...tangerines and almonds. Or, fried dough and turnips. Or, my favorite written description of New Orleans: Roses and sewers. Let us miss it, with you. When you talk about depression, don't tell us you're sad, tell us how that sadness FEELS.
3. Let go. With everyone else, we say, "edit, edit, edit." With you, for now, I'm going to say, "stop editing." Let it flow. Give yourself 30 minutes, write whatever your are feeling, even if it is nonsensical, and post it. Then, let it go. If you can't do that in your blog's present form, find some kind of anonymity that allows you to do this. Anonymity is hard to keep, but it is valuable. There is one irony about blogging that never ceases to amaze me: I can tell horrifying secrets to strangers that I'd never tell close friends. If you lose the anonymity, you've lost that opportunity.
4. Write, everyday. Do it because doing so will help you, personally. And, here is how: It's been 5 months, and you're in this strange country, and everything is alien. In another 6 months, though, it will be slightly more familiar. Even now, you have your little routines. If you push yourself, those routines will expand, and you will start to build a place for yourself, a place that feels just ever so slightly more like home. In 2 years, you will really FEEL like you're home, and home will feel strange and alien and changed.
You should document that process, because when times get hard, you can look back and see how far you've come. You can see the progress you've made, and you can take heart from it. And in years to come, you'll realize just how strong you are, just how capable you are, and when future changes come, you will be able to more easily take them in stride. That is the one certainty of adult life, by the way, that all things change, even the things that you hope will never change.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And, now, with my mom hat securely on my head, I want you to know these things, as well:
Dear Ms. Gruntle:
I'm worried about you. Here is my best motherly advice to help you weather these tough times:
1. Eat better. Sure, McDonald's is cheaper, and the greasy carbs give you a quick high, but ultimately, you will feel worse. Better than McDonald's is this meal from Wendy's, for under $4: Small side salad, baked potato, chili. If you are struggling with depression, the worst thing you can do is eat a lot of unhealthy, carb-heavy, toxic food. It will only make things worse.
2. Do one thing each day that scares you. I'm not talking about jumping out of airplanes, but I am talking about pushing yourself outside of your rut. Talk to someone in the classroom. Smile at a cashier. Ask a stranger a question. Invite someone to go to dinner with you. Go for a walk and discover a new place. Eat a new kind of food you've never tried before. Push yourself outside of your comfort zone. You are on your own in a new place, this is an ADVENTURE. Treat it as such.
3. Take lots of pictures. You'll want to remember the things you've seen, done, enjoyed, hated, explored.
4. Find at least one thing each day that gives you joy. Maybe it's a song. Maybe it's the sight of the sun streaming between the bare branches of the trees onto crystalline snow. Maybe it's a funny bumper sticker. Force yourself to find your bliss.
5. Find some words that inspire you, and put them on your mirror where you will be forced to read them every morning. Do it so that you can internalize them. I recommend Ralph Waldo Emerson. Perhaps you can start with this:
Don't be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make, the better.
If you do these things, and you write, write, write those feelings out, I promise that you will find that the sky is significantly lighter in the next couple of months, and so is your daily mood.
Love,
Mom
I give you , with the promise of more to come if you keep working at it.
So does all work and no play in fact make Professor Booty a dull boy? Well, while the rest of us have been busy handing out lashings left and right, our Professor has no doubt been handing out bright shiny A+'s to fair, daft co-eds for the promise of, well, I'll leave that to your imagination. Welcome back Professor Booty, ready for your pop quiz? -Miss Missives
Well, hello my little askers and receivers. It's been quite some time since last we met. But, Miss Missives requested my presence here today and when a specimen of womanhood such as herself commands, who am I to demur.
The Professor wasn't born in the phallic ivory tower in which he now resides, pondering deep thoughts in the field of bootology. No, I used to spend a fair bit of time on ground level among the unwashed masses. In fact, I ran around with a crowd that was more interested in the intricacies of Black Flag lyrics than pursuits of philosophy. These ruffians offered the sallow fledgling Professor a measure of protection, entertainment and intoxication. I've lost touch with most of my punk rock compatriots and I occasionally what happened to them. What happens to a punk rocker when the leather jacket no longer buttons over the beer gut, the peg leg pants get tight in the wrong places and there is no longer hair enough on the top for a Mohawk?
Well, Punk Rock Dad may be able to shed some light on that query.
OK, let's get the bad news out of the way first. The site is pretty unattractive. Maybe that's the point, maybe it's punk rock to have a pixelated header and a bland on white template. If so, well done. Is it also punk rock to have a site that's incredibly difficult to navigate? No way to get 'Home', no archives, no search box - makes it very difficult to move around the site. The Professor would also like to know a bit more about you, Punk Rock Dad. How about a bit more of a biography or a cast of characters. Without an archive, it's hard to tell how long you've been around but I get the feeling that it's long enough to put some of your favorite posts out there as a "Best of Punk Rock Dad" page. I'm going to make a suggestion that runs counter to the AAYSR party line - put a bit more on your sidebar, put a bit more onto the page in general. Most people that stumble on your blog are going to form an opinion based on the way the place looks before reading a single word. You do yourself a disservice by having a rather dull looking page.
Because the real story is that Punk Rock Dad, well, rocks. Ultimately, blogs should be more about the writing than template choices and when it comes down to the meat of the matter, PRD has got it right.
As good as these posts are they feel like filler when compared to his best work. It's probably worth noting that the Professor has a night gig as a Daddy blogger, but Punk Rock Dad is at his best when writing about fatherhood. This is where we break through the bullshit facade - the leathers and the mohawks and the piercings - to get underneath the skin of Punk Rock Dad. This is where the stereotypes fall apart and this is where the aging punk earns the respect of this aging academic. Like any good dad, he's equal parts proud of and fascinated by his kids. He relays the feelings that all Dad's are stricken with from time to time - being out of place and ill qualified for the task at hand - and the immense joy brought on by the simplest success as a father. The post that hit the Professor hardest, the one that clinched Punk Rock Dad's grade for today, was a short and simple one. With a photo and a couple of lines he nailed the emotion that hits hardest every Dad who spends time away from home - longing. A fucking plus, my friend. My only criticism - I'd like to see more of it. This is your strength - focus on it.
There are fewer Daddy bloggers than Mommy bloggers on the internets, but the ratio of crap to gold is approximately the same. Per capita, there are as many dull, whining, loathsome Daddy bloggers as there are dull, whining, loathsome Mommy bloggers. Punk Rock Dad is one of the exceedingly uncommon class of Daddy blogger that can tear your heart out, make you laugh - cringing - with recognition and keep you coming back for more.
Our typical declaration of love doesn't seem quite right for Punk Rock Dad, so here's a new one that the Professor had one of his students whip up for you.
Let me get straight to point or I'll be here all fucking day, this is "Saale Bhehnchod" the blog of a moaner. A 23 year old Indian law student whinging his arse off. How many of you are there?
I haven't got the slightest clue as to why he would sumbit himself for a review.
I didn't find just one, nor just two, but three, and fuck knows how many more posts moaning about people mentioning he had put on weight or his appearance. Give me strength. Men come 3 groups, skinny, fat, and everything else. The addition or subtraction of two pounds should go unnoticed, and more to the point unwhinged about.
You rattle on and on and on about being addicted and/or not addicted depending on the day of the week to booze. Here's a clue, alcoholics don't usually get around to googling for and posting images of their favourite drinks on their blog. They drink it. You are a fucking student, it's your job to get arseholed twice a week and wake up with traffic signs in your bed. The only thing you are addicted to is the sound of your own voice.
The first post at the time of writing is an 'oh so controversial yet not really of Obama' and the frenzy surrounding him. Kudos to you for calling it as you see it, but you fucked up royally saying he looked like a monkey. At best, a misguided thing to say.
If I were objective I would just say nice job, well written, and you've created an oversized bebo page for you and your pals to play around with. Unfortunately, I'm not objective. The blog annoyed the shit out of me. My blood pressure actually rose while clicking through your posts. You have no interest in writing, only talking.
I couldn't go back further than 2008 because as irritated as I was reading you at 23 years of age, I shudder to think what went before. I really should have just linked to this post at the start and left it at that. Dreadful, self indulgent, unfounded, faux angst.
I had to go back and remove the working 'fucking' 4 times from this post, that's how much you got under my skin.
Constructive advice? You can clearly write well, technically, but you don't write, you talk. If you have any interest to improve, re-read what you write and ask yourself do you like what you read. Other than that, stop fucking moaning. You are privileged, go live your life.
Now I think I hear chants of Obama coming over the hill, so jump in fast, I've left the engine running.
There are some things about womanhood that are better left unsaid. And manhood, too, for that matter. I mean, who wants to talk about smegma? Not me. But what I mean is, some of us hold onto misconceptions that paint us as the fairer sex, the less stinky sex. And that, to me, is just fine. Because I like that air of mystery. It covers up the smell.
But Fiona wants us to know that Girls Poop Too. Which, you know, obviously, but do we have to talk about it? I know, I've come over all delicate southern belle on y'all. Sometimes I can't help it. If she'd written a site called Girls Squirt Too, I'd have been all over it. But this is just... distasteful.
And so is the design. It's pink on brown. Those colors can work together, but not hot pink and doo-doo brown, like a cherry on a turd. I mean, I guess it illustrates her point, but aesthetically who would want to?
There are ads of the blinking variety, which just ratchets up the shit factor. Fiona, move your archives and categories to the top of the sidebar (nice work rolling them up, though), and get rid of the ads and the groups you've joined and the log in/register crap (or at least move that to the bottom). Good job on doing an About page, but you damn sure don't give us a lot to go on, do you? Hell, we don't even get your name there, or your age, or anything else of interest other than the story of how you came up with your blog title. I will say that the last paragraph of your About page was probably the most truthful and interesting of your blog.
I read through the entire blog, as I tend to do with all my reviews, and all I could glean is that Fiona is bitter and judgmental. Which I know is kind of pot-calling-kettle-blackish considering I'm judging her blog, but still. It's all just so angry. For 22 (which, by the way, I had to read for a thousand years before I discovered), she's got an awful lot of venom stored up and ready to spew. Dear heart, what happened? Has someone pissed in your Cheerios every day of your life?
Fiona writes about celebrities (yawn) and her political views (which I couldn't disagree with more, surprise surprise) and makeup and people who annoy her. Her coworkers are stupid and annoying, and Obama supporters are stupid and retarded and annoying, and her friends are stupid and boring and annoying, and everything is just crap and she hates it.
And she gets like one comment per post. Wonder why.
I liked this post; I cracked a smile. And I do agree with her on Nancy Grace. The woman is a menace. And the makeup suggestions were helpful because I am a girly girl. But otherwise? There just wasn't much here for me.
Girls Poop Too is exactly the kind of blog I can't get into: snarky without substance. We don't learn anything true or deep or appealing about Fiona. There's nothing here that makes me want to know her. It's all surface criticism and shit that bugs or amuses her. And for a journalism major, the writing is just not engrossing. Oh, she's got some zingers. And she mentions bukkake, which I kind of have to like. But the writing rambles and is inelegant and there's no attention paid to craft or execution or storytelling.
Fiona, I see where you want to go with this. I read a couple of the blogs you link to. But you're just not quite hitting it yet. There's too much trying to be funny and bitchy and not enough humanity or personality. I don't know you. And with what you're putting out there for us to read, why would I want to? If you're going to be a nasty piece of work, at least do it with style, put some effort into polishing up your writing. And if you're more than a bitchy little shit, then show us.
I could give you a flaming finger just because your attitude and your politics really chap my ass, but because I think I can see where this could go if you clean up your design, bring in some better colors, relieve the clutter, and polish up your writing, and because I'm feeling magnanimous and "hopeful" (sneer all you want, oh disaffected youth), you get:
Young Shirley: I hate the world. I hate everythin'. It's all garbage. It's last. It's crap and I hate it. Old Shirley (V.O.): But I didn't really hate anything. The only thing I hated was me. -- Shirley Valentine
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:
Pull up a chair, Ginny from Praying to Darwin is today's guest reviewer. You might recognize Ginny from her weekly appearances at Canada's answer to the Cheetah Club, Teaser's Burlesque Palace. Catch her every Thursday for Hot Mamas on Da Pole Night. When she's not busy perfecting her inverted butterfly she's sharpening her mad writing skills. -Miss Missives
So one day, I'm minding my own (read: my neighbor's) business, just sitting on my couch (read: peeking through the curtains at my neighbor's husband in a car with a woman who is NOT my neighbor), when I get an email from Miss Missives. Would I care to do a guest review? Hellcat, yeah! Hook me up!
So I get my assignment: “If You Can't Say Something Nice”. Immediately, the smart ass twelve year-old in me wants to submit a blank email as my review. Come on, you're fucking begging for it. But that's just rude. And the title sounds a little gossip-y. And there's a cheesecake-looking picture in the header. And cha-ching, sex toys on the sidebar! So maybe...
But what's this? She moved? After she invited us over? (Note to self: try that move the next time my husband invites the in-laws over.) We're not off to a good start, here, Randi. While your blogger template was perfectly mediocre, the wordpress template is fugly. Seriously, you can do better. Damn near any of the free templates would be an improvement. Make it easy for us to get around; I'm a lazy, lazy woman. I like archives, I like a list of categories.
Randi's a mommy-blogger. And she's prolific. She's been at this since 2005; last year, she posted more times than I brushed my teeth (Say what you will, but my dentist fucking adores me. And my insurance.) There's a whole, whole lot of every day, diary entry stuff. If this blog is just for family and friends to keep track of you and yours, then carry on. If not, for the love of all things holy, pare it down. Write that post, go back and read it, figure out what the point was, then get to it. This post was going somewhere, then just stopped, abruptly. This one started out as a goodbye to a friend's dog, took a hairpin turn, and ended with a defense of a racial slur. (I can't agree, by the way.)
“But what about the sex-toy reviews?” “Get to the dildos, already!” I had high hopes. But here's the thing. Once upon a time, the office I worked in had a receptionist named Susan. Susan was in her 50's, had a tight perm, and big, white-rimmed glasses. She liked to hang out “with the girls”, and talk about S-E-X. It was, in a word, off-putting. The reviews smacked of Susan. Do I believe Randi is a very kinky girl, the kind you don't bring home to mother? Probably. Does it come across in her reviews? Nope. “I'm fairly sensitive down there.” Sweet mother of god. Cunt, pussy, vagina, box, penis garage. All terms I'd rather read in reference to your hoo-ha than “down there.”
You're probably asking, “Hey, Ginny! Who the fuck are you to criticize?” Well, the answer is, nobody. And that's kind of the point. I'm the Joe-lene the Plumber of readers. The average person who looks at a blog isn't going to slog through hundreds of posts to get back to that one story you told that was worth reading. You've only got a few seconds to catch us lazy-asses.
My advice? Do your blog Kegels, Randi. Tighten that shit up. Only post when you have something to say. If you're going to do vibrator reviews, go hard or go home.
The tree has been set ablaze, the presents have been exchanged, and the charges have all been dropped.
I stand before you naked and reborn and hungry to be driven. Driven to enlightenment, sadness, and laughter.
So what have you brought to offer me as means to take me there? You bring me a guy's guide to Oprah.
Seriously? that's it? Bollocks.
A poor idea, averagely executed, and short lived.
A gray mass of bored husband, started last Summer and dead in the water by early October.
It's hard enough to encourage me to read the drivel puked up by the general public at the best of times, but if you can't even be bothered to continue to write it you've been licking too many windows if you think I'm going to stretch myself to review it.
Lick on Jeeves.
The entries are dull overall. The original idea of a daily Oprah show review stroke commentary was a novelty that just could not be sustained, not without a glimmer of effort at least.
I'm sickened to my semen filled stomach with this plague of averageness. Another bright idea, another humor blog, another lame attempt full of excuses and lazy six-out-of-ten efforts.
This especially goes astray as a humor blog when the episode being reviewed is less than full of joy.
What really concerned me was that on many an occasion you actually did just summise the show, no slant, no joke, just summary. That's worse than going for the jugular with and entry and failing miserably.
In the end you developed crippling stomach pains and ended up in hospital. (Your wife is funny.)
Miss Missives started January on a quest to usher 2009 in as the year of Zen. Rather than go around with her red pen and rule book, Miss Missives longed to let her tightly-wound bun down, slip on a pair of soft, spangled Indian slippers, read over the collective of AAYSR-submitted blogs and mutter phrases like let it be, all you need is love and gettin' better all the time. Yes, she had been listening to an anthology of Beatles while she constructed the plan, so? In her mind, gone would be the irritated directives, the smarmy admonitions, and the marginally soothing salve of tepid praise to make up for the true and real criticism. 2009 would come to show Miss Missives as friend to the people, nurturer to the tortured writer's souls that litter the internet.
Alas, this recuperative plan failed right out the gate. Maybe it was ill-advised for me to think that a peacock could change it's feathers. Maybe the AAYSR gods sent me onknees to test my mettle, challenge my commitment. Whatever the case, I've failed because I can't join hands with my fellow bloggers and sing kumbaya, let's all just do our own thing and heap praise on each other. Miss Missives is already starting to feel like blogging is becoming one giant daisy chain and I won't add to the masturbatory milieu.
Why does everyone and their uncle want to write? Why is everyone looking to get published or syndicated. Just because you slap some paint on a wall doesn't make you a painter, and just because you have a blog doesn't make you a writer. However, if you can expel gas from your rectum at will, I think you should be allowed to call yourself a f'artiste. All these would-be writers run around dreaming about book deals like it's the next great home-based biz, sit in your jammies and collect a fat paycheck. Like books just write themselves or all you need to do is type out nine-hundred random words and there will be staggering lines of editors just waiting to lap it up. Can I just ask these people, are there trees in your world? Writing is work and one of those industries that even if you have talent oozing out of your pores you may still never make it happen.
At first glance, Onknees sounds like it has potential. There is the part about being on one's knees which struck Miss Missives as appropriately submissive. Then there is the heavily glossed lips that festoon the header. The first post makes an apt comparison between Amy Winehouse and Jerry Seinfeld. Still, a dive into the content proves disheartening. There is one post where Annette regales us with the intel that she goes commando but without further details, this is just an uncomfortable non sequitur. The second part of that post is great but sadly, written by someone else. There is other good material but alas, penned by another. There are prime examples of the daisy chain I speak of. There are posts that challenge you to read through them without experiencing vertigo from all the bits and bobs going on. There is a book review that screams 8th grade homework and a post about female bosses that is a confusing mix of other's opinions that actually perpetuates the negative stereotypes about women in lead positions that it seems to criticize. There is even one post so boring I fell asleep reading it. I'm not speaking figuratively or metaphorically, I actually fell asleep.
I don't mind as a matter of democratization that every Tom, Dick and Mary has his or her dirty, little corner of the web. One of the great things about blogging is anyone can do it even those that patently shouldn't. What irks me is the utter lack of self-awareness and real critical understanding of one's talents and skills that seems to pervade the blogosphere. It's like watching the b-roll of American Idol auditions, not that Miss Missives watches that sort of thing. For every blogger who accurately measures their own ability there are ten more who think they are what they are in fact not, be it introspective, funny, poignant, snarky, you name it. Good writers can make waiting in line at the bank a good story. Good writers can make regular people seem larger than life through the way they uncover the details. There are good writers out there, there are, but the better part of the blogosphere is being populated by a bunch of sh'artistes.
Ah, I've missed it here. The holidays were grand, but, oh, to be back among you, you vile, loathsome, evil little cockroaches. You complete me.
I wish I could say the same for my reviewee today. My welcome back, in that sense, leaves much to be desired. Because instead of starting 2009 with a blog to praise, an author to drape with laurels, and a new hope for the merits of bloggers worldwide, I get... well... this.
Sigh.
Brace yourselves. There's bad poetry. And prose poetry. With no attempt at using an apostrophe. Or capital letters. Or a dictionary. Or any sense.
Ov. Ov? Seriously? Fucker. No wait, it gets worse: gud. And wud. And ud. I just... I can't even get mad. Because it just depresses me so much. I know this is English as a second language and I'm dealing with a generation who learned to communicate in text pidgin, but Christ on a crutch, is this what the world is coming to? To paraphrase LB's daughter, I despair for her generation. And I despair for us if we're getting another round of emo Indian kids' blogs to review because, oh, the agony.
I suspect someone listens to a lot of Evanescence or maybe Lacuna Coil. And she calls herself a Nincompoop. And a loser. I mean, this is angst to the nth degree. It's dark (but kind of dark light, like gray, or maybe a middling purple, like it wants to be dark but doesn't know how), and silly, and juvenile, and pitiful, and woe is me, and melodrama, and OMG toadily (I'm fucking serious, y'all -- she wrote "toadily").
And what's worse is I can't understand a damn thing that's going on. There's no story. There's no revelatory information, no exposition, no nothing. I don't know who this girl is, aside from my assumption that she's young and depressed. I don't know what she likes, what she does, who her friends are, what she wants. It's just really bad poetry and really pathetic whining and really annoying mutilation of the English language. All on a black background with a huge ass header image that takes up too much space and meaningless doohickeys in the sidebar and it's just all a waste of time.
I hate to say that. I do. Because I suspect this girl just wants to let it all out, and I was an angsty teen, too, once, back when God was a boy and I had my own personal Jesus. But for shit's sake do it somewhere else, and don't subject the rest of the world to it. Password protect that drivel, put it in your bedside journal, or just write it on notebook paper and then wad it up and throw it away.
It's obvious she just posts when she's got some new angsty poetry to share, or when someone has broken her heart, or when the weight of it all (although what "all" is I haven't a clue because I can't understand every third word) gets to be too much, because there's just not a lot here. And that's probably a good thing.
This is not a blog. It's a regurgitation of emotion. And someone should clean that shit up before the rest of us get it on our shoes.
And here's a bandage for your boo-boos. Cheer the hell up.
First off, let me just say this: the blog screams douchebag, from the blogger's mandatory "I'm an urban hipster" stocking cap to the calculatedly pretensious "I'm so unpretentious" labels, to the "Oh, look at me, I'm a fuck the world badass" blog template. I cannot tell a lie, I am prepared to spew molten seething hatred all over this blog.
And, some things, I do hate. Especially this post, which makes me want to punch Mr. Poster Child for Urban Douchebag Poseurs right in the snake bite. I hate dickheads. Even more than I hate dickheads, I hate guys who think that being a dickhead to a 4-year-old is funny. No, it isn't funny. It just shows that you are as evil and soulless as Dick Cheney. And, I am never going hunting with your lame friend-shooting ass. Sure, maybe you were just being a little over the top with the sarcasm, but shut the fuck up. As a mom here, I don't find it funny, not at all.
Not all the posts are this bad, however, I notice that all of them are just slightly off. It's like pushing a grocery cart around a store with that one squeaky wheel that can never quite get its shit together and roll with the rest of the team. After a while, it gets on your last good nerve, and you have to push that cart out to the edge of the parking lot and hope that, on its own initiative, it will roll straight off a cliff and perish in a screech of plastic wheels and shiny metal spokes.
For instance, this post. The PEHS nonsense? Not funny. If you'd just spoken from your own experiences, instead of trying to riff off someone else's funny, the post would have worked better.
Or this one, which could have been a very funny single paragraph post, but instead, lost momentum midstream in the second paragraph. I'd have advised breaking up the single post into two separate posts.
I don't really get the point of this post or this post. Both left me with a meh feeling in my gut. Too many words, not enough point.
So far, I have yet to see a blog that's self-referred to us from humorbloggers.com that really comes through and delivers the funny. And, there is just too much random shit going on that doesn't work, like putting an orange in the middle of a story about annoying next door neighbors. You don't need the orange, dude. You just need to fucking tell the story.
What I get from this blog is that Orion hasn't figured out yet who he's going to be. Is he going to be a dad, or a poser tough guy? Is he going to be tender? Or a dickhead? I'm not sure I like him, and at this point, as it stands, I don't really like his blog.
Maybe he is ambivalent towards his new role as an adult man in a family with kids, but speaking as a single mom here, that ambivalence ain't cool.
To borrow from Jerry McGuire:
Jerry: Can I ask you a question totally unrelated to your career? Rod: Oh, we gonna be friends now? Jerry: What do you know about dating a single mother? Rod: Oh I know plenty. I was raised by a single mother. Jerry: Tell me, because it's been a month, and she's about to take another job in San Diego. Rod: First, single mothers don't "date." They have been to the circus, you know what I'm saying? They have been to the puppet show and they have seen the strings. You love her? Jerry: How do I know? Rod: You know when you know. It makes you shiver, it eats at your insides. You know? Jerry: No, I don't know. Rod: Then you gotta have The Talk. Jerry: But I sure don't like that she's leaving. Rod: Well, that ain't fair to her. A single mother, that's a sacred thing, man. Jerry: The kid is amazing. Rod: No. A real man does not shoplift the "pooty" from a single mom.
Are you in it? Or, are you shoplifting the pooty? Because, you're talking about kids' lives here, and you can't be in it halfway. I think you're a poser, and you need to grow the fuck up and be a man, and your blog pisses me off, and isn't funny enough to compensate for that. Also, this is who you are trying to be, and failing miserably, because you aren't him, so fucking be yourself.
You know I am a mom, right? And sometimes, the mommy job requires that I bare little buttocks, and swat them soundly. Other times, it means taking a distraught child, curling her against my body, and offering what comfort I can with my words, my arms, and my love.
, with the promise of more to come if you keep working at it. 
for 
Our typical declaration of love doesn't seem quite right for Punk Rock Dad, so here's a new one that the Professor had one of his students whip up for you.
Miss Missives started January on a quest to usher 2009 in as the year of Zen. Rather than go around with her red pen and rule book, Miss Missives longed to let her tightly-wound bun down, slip on a pair of soft, spangled Indian slippers, read over the collective of AAYSR-submitted blogs and mutter phrases like let it be, all you need is love and gettin' better all the time. Yes, she had been listening to an anthology of Beatles while she constructed the plan, so? In her mind, gone would be the irritated directives, the smarmy admonitions, and the marginally soothing salve of tepid praise to make up for the true and real criticism. 2009 would come to show Miss Missives as friend to the people, nurturer to the tortured writer's souls that litter the internet.
