red rocket, red rocket

Once, when I was about 10 years old, my mom and I walked over to the home of the lady who cut my mom's hair (she was a neighbor, and had a "beauty shop" in her basement). I was allowed to amuse myself by playing with her middle-aged poodle outside on the front stoop. I thought we might play a nice game of fetch, but the dog had other plans. I saw him as cute small and fluffy, he saw me as a sex object. Out of his groin, he sprouted a lipstick shaped erection and began humping my leg. I shook him off. He circled like an airplane coming in for a landing and hit me from a different approach, gyrating furiously on my calf. I ran. He pursued. I dodged. He weaved. No matter what i did, there it was, there the red rocket was, searching for some point of entry, looking for satisfaction.

You can imagine the trauma.

I sat at my desk this morning trying to think what today's blog reminded me of, and this childhood story was the closest parallel I could find.

You show up, there's a red-pantsed rock star looking dude on the header. Then, oddly, this statement:

If this blog helps send just one deserving kid to camp, it will all be worth it.

Umm, okay. That makes no sense, but fine. Then, the author's e-mail address. Again, makes no sense, but whatevers.

As always, my first stop was on the about me, where i learned that the author was "I was born at a young age…" Helpful.

I'll be honest, I spent 45 minutes reading posts, all of it with that damn poodle of a blog trying way too hard to rub his penis on me.

I couldn't do it. The content TRIES TOO HARD. There's too much. For every hit, there are 10 misses.

Consider this post, for instance. It illustrates really well that Bschooled is doing it wrong.

It's too much, B. You don't need 3 mediocre sponsors. You need ONE GOOD SPONSOR. You don't need 10 crappy humor bits that try too hard and miss. You need ONE GOOD HUMOR BIT that hits the mark.

You need to learn to edit yourself. Your natural impulse is to go all red rocket crazy, throw some shit on a page, and hump us all to death. Take a valium, FFS.

If you aren't spending time on /b/, go there and absorb some juicy goodness that isn't dated as fuck. Just mind the splooge puddles over there. If you are spending time on /b/, get the fuck off the computer and get a damn life. If you don't know what /b/ is, that explains a lot.

Your blog could be funny, your charicature of the Iron Chef commentators was dead on. You have a great ear for dialogue. But you're ruining it all with your fucking red rocket.

In honor of you, I present a new rating: Doing it wrong.