Wankers

You are all a bunch of wankers. No, not today’s reviewee.  YOU.  The one sitting at there with your eyes glued to your screen of choice.

I got six pissing comments on my last review and three of those were from Shiner. Poor show, people, poor show. That is not to say that I don’t concede that my review may have been pissweak boring, but if you can’t rip the shit out of the reviewee, couldn’t you at least turn on me, telling me what a useless pile of pap my review was and make a day of it?

Pah-thetic.

I have nothing if not an ego that needs to be stroked, even if I put in a starfish performance, so I can tell you, it was an effort not to throw my hands up with a “Fuck the lot of ya’s” and bail on this review. (Insult must be said with broad Aussie accent or else it loses all effect) However, along with my need for validation I also have an overblown sense of responsibility, so here I am.

Fuck you Shiner. Fuck you cause I heart you so much and didn’t want to let you down, cause bugger me backwards – I had to spend an evening with this dickhead.

Kavisolo. You moron. Go back to the heathen shithole myspace den of iniquity from whence you came. (There is no real iniquity in your ‘blog’ – I just like the word) Far fucking out. Ugh. I don’t know who you are or what you do, except stick up youtube clips and photos of yourself. I do know that you have glasses and look like a nerd. Albeit an ironic hipster-ish type nerd. Book. Cover. Judged.

Are you Indian? Gay? That is what I can tell seven pages in but the little legs on my inferential skills are paddling like crazy to keep this semblance of a real person afloat.

Hold the phone – I FOUND something. Page 17. You left Australia fourteen years ago to live in Canada. Well there ya bloody go mate. And shit. I just saw that I was seventeen pages in and you were only in January of this year. I am sorry Kavisolo but even with your minimalist template and lack of side-crap, your stupid way of  only being able to navigate from page to page sucks ass. Wait – hold that telephone receiver yet again my dear reader-come-telephonist. Here we go. Retarded Redpen just hit the archive button and lo and behold all is revealed. The archives appear in one damn funky looking collage. I like this bit.

But the rest sucks. It is all poser crap with ‘I’m-so-clever-cos-I can-find-quotes’ fraudery (it’s a word because I said so) and no writing, at least none that I can be arsed finding.

All style (kinda) and no substance. You miff me in your need to be reviewed. Is it a postmodern joke that I don’t get?

Whatever.

      

One Word: No!

I flirted with reviewing you a while back, and now is your shining moment, which isn’t actually going to be very bloody shiny. I am going to start off where I left off. It goes something like this: ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!’

Did you hear that Lil Miss Out of My Comfort Zone? NO. If I had a rolled up newspaper I would smack you like the puppy who has just peed on the carpet.

Again for clarification– NO!

You sure are out of your comfort zone, if the zone of comfort was something to write about that people actually gave a shit about. And on another note, do you know why else you suck? You haven’t posted since September the 7th. I am guessing you picked up on the fact that you were going to be reviewed in the near future when good ‘ol Shiny Pants asked you to unprivate your blog. But no, you obviously didn’t pick up that a steaming pile was headed your way.

How old are you anyway? It is clear that you are very young, using ‘n’ for the word ‘and’... and you know what? I have no idea what sex you are. I assumed female and then there you are, crapping on about Cricket. Not that girls don’t like Cricket. But I liked to make assumptions, my little discomfited girly-boy.

I am not going to link to anything on your blog here. Why? Because I don’t wanna; you pissed me off. Why the hell do you need to regale us with R. Kelly lyrics, which will now have many unfortunate Ass-kers believing they can fly and can touch the sky? Why do you crap on about Religion, Napping, Michael Corleone, Cricket and Being an Introvert like you are an expert on any of those things? (Okay, I will pay you the napping) Just because someone said you write okay, it doesn’t mean you have to torture the rest of us and start grandstanding. Start small. Tell a story, a little one. I knew a guy who could reduce you to tears just from writing about how he woke up and took a piss. He was that good.

But you, kid? You need to go away, grow up, get some experiences. Just small ones. And not ones that include how much your sucker parents love you and buy you a new phone every time you bloody lose one. To quote Shiner, that is just obnoxious.

Now, I do realise I am tarring you with a very broad brush. I am sure if I had a blog at your age it would be a little sick making and a lot of ‘Why am I so Heartbroken, Misunderstood blah blah blah.’ Shit, I do that now - but bugger me, I was always a good writer. I was totally precocious man; my first grade story on Brontosaurus’ made the cover of the class book, dude – prehistoric butterfly in the illustrations and all. You? Well, you are doing well for someone who probably isn’t a native English speaker, but even so, watch your spelling; they like you to done spell good in ‘collage’ you know. And lay off the ellipses. And CAPS. And font fuckery. And learn the correct your/you’re. And the right their/there/they’re while ‘your’ (ha – see what I did their? And again! On fire today, Redpen, on FIRE) And, lastly, no more ‘ur’. Gah.

I want to say something nice, but at the moment all I see is a train-wreck that I am desperate to look away from; an off-key, ‘but my mum says I have a lovely voice’ screecher, that has people on the other side of the world watching you with through their fingers.

So what can I leave you with that won’t crush your young, tender soul? You seem happy and upbeat, but that could be because of all of the exclamation marks you use.

I am going to leave it up to our dear readers and your 6 followers; please, someone, find something in this young person’s blog that will give them the will and the hope to keep on. And just to punctuate that thought, my delightful dog, who is sleeping in the hallway, has just spiced the air with the delightful fragrance of meaty chunks, via his colon.

Comfort Zone, while you are at collage, study, study your arse off in physics or whatever else those crazy whipper snappers are jiving to these days. Cos a writer you will not be.

Where Everybody Doesn't Know Your Name

At my local watering hole, there are two old man barflies whom we avoid at all costs. They are nice, sweet old coots, but are of the type to babble endlessly about random shit. The times we have felt friendly toward them, they've ended up sitting at our table with us for hours, but don't even recognize us the next time we come in.

"Pops" is an 80-year-old veteran, who drives a taxi and collects old coins, keeping several on his person. He has shown them to me and talked about each for at least 20 minutes, in a semi-incoherent manner. I am unsure if it was because he is old and senile, or because he's probably been drinking non-stop for over 60 years. Before he left the bar for the night (whether he was driving his taxi for personal or business reasons is unknown to me), the bar staff knew to bring him a shot of half and half, his "immediate-sober-up" cure.

The other is someone whom we've dubbed "Old Hippie Man", because of his permanent smile and obvious overuse of acid back in the day. I can't remember anything about our unintelligible conversation. He does, however, continually and randomly say, "Carry On!" while making an "Airplane Taking Off" motion with his hand. Even when he gets caught in the middle of bar fights.

Talking to these two, is what it was like for me to read this blog. If the old man barflies were emo Indian girls, that is.

Sheetal rambles on about her feelings and all the wisdom she's gained in all her 23 years. It reads like a journal she's keeping as personal therapy, but it would be better for her to just buy an actual journal, than to expose us all to this shit by submitting here.

You want to know how incoherent and boring this blog is? I have read (maybe skimmed) every single post of every other blog I've reviewed, but I couldn't even get through one of Sheetal's posts. This is why I can't even give links for examples.

She talks about people who haven't been introduced in the blog, as if I'm supposed to figure it out on my own and give a shit about them. Hell, I have no clue about who Sheetal is at all, because there is no "About Me", and I cannot glean anything about her from her posts for the life of me. I mean, I'm assuming Sheetal is female, simply because "she" writes about meeting boys. That may just be coming from my heterocentric view though.

The blog is filled with run-on sentences, misspellings, and huge slabs of meandering, uninteresting paragraphs, which is frightening because apparently, she's a journalist. I fervently pray to Ganesha that her profession doesn't include writing in English, because she has a mediocre grasp of it.

She doesn't post regularly and only has 66 posts for the past 4 years, which I don't even mind, because that means less pollution of the internet.

My advice to Sheetal: Start a new blog, and write stories from your life. Funny memories, sad memories, angry memories, all of it. Readers want to read the blog of someone who puts themselves out there, which means writing about things that make you uncomfortable, not writing down every little emo thought in your little emo head.

Until then, I'm giving you:







For making it feel like I was listening to drunken, brain-fried, old men yammering on about shit no one cares about. Without the luxury of having a beer in my hand.

What would people think, when they hear that I'm a Jesus Freak?*

I'm pretty sure Shiner saved this one special, just for me. To hope for an unbiased, issue-free review is a futile effort.

I grew up going to church every Sunday. I was heavily involved in my youth group in junior high and high school. The first two years of my adulthood were spent at a small, private Christian college. Yes, shockingly enough, I was one of those kids.

However, I never quite fit in. Even at the age of 13, I felt like an outsider. And I was viewed as a bad Christian, simply because I rebelled against Christian culture*. I refused to live in the bubble*, and they didn't like it.

But Halee is someone they would like. She's so steeped in Christian culture, Tyndale House* could publish books from her used Kleenex. She's set up shop so far in her bubble, I really believe she thought this was a Christian blog review site because our name quotes John 16:24*. Obviously, she didn't read the URL.

Nevertheless, this is my assignment, and I've never been one for shirking my duties.

Halee's blog template is cute, her title is cliched and banal ("My Life and Thoughts"), and she has too much distracting and meaningless crap in her sidebar.

Halee's writing comes across as uneducated. It's filled with incorrect spelling, grammar, spacing, and capitalization, and rife with run-on sentences and paragraphs. Also, an abundance of dreaded exclamation points, making the blog come across as one written by a middle school girl, instead of a married, college-educated woman.

Most of the blog is written like a journal, for her friends to catch up on her life. Completely boring for a stranger. She also seems mildly obsessed with weddings and babies, which is par for the course with most Christian girls. It was also one of the reasons why I only spent 2 years at the Christian college, before transferring to a state school. I didn't go to school to get my MRS. degree, thank you very much.

In the rest of her blog, she spews Conservative Christian propaganda, which only appeals to people who have those same beliefs. I get the feeling that Halee is just regurgitating what her parents and her church have told her, without thinking for herself. I also get the feeling she's trying to witness to the world*, from her blog. But again, no one's going to read this blog unless they come from the same background as Halee, so it's pointless.

I was all set to give her a "Meh" and an "Abercrombie", and tell her to start an anonymous blog, where she can write about real things, without feeling like everyone in her bubble is watching. . . until I got to these posts:

1) Here, she talks about how she's annoyed with being asked to give money for Haiti relief, because our government spends our tax money irresponsibly.
2) Here, she talks about how she has a hard time feeling sympathy for the homeless, because the ONE TIME she has seen a homeless person, he was rude to her.

Let's see what Jesus has to say about this, shall we Halee?

Matthew 22:37-39* - The "love your neighbor as yourself" verse.

Luke 6:30-31* - The Golden Rule, AKA the "do unto others" verse.

Matthew 25:31-36* - The Parable of the Sheep and Goats, AKA the "whatever you did for the least of these" verse.

Did you notice how I didn't need to explain what the verses were, other than their nicknames? That's because people with limited knowledge of the Bible have heard of them. And when Christians fail miserably at those basic commandments, it makes them look really bad. That's why people say, "All Christians are hypocrites", Halee.

Also readers, have you noticed how clean my language has been in this post? That's because I've been saving it for this:

How the FUCK have you only seen one homeless person in your life?

I grew up in a small backwater town too, but I spent time with my church family, sorting clothes and serving food at the local homeless shelter WHEN I WAS 10.

In high school, I spent the springtime running fundraisers to earn money to travel to Mexico, the Arizona Navajo reservation, and inner-city LA. You know what I did there? I built houses for the homeless, worked in missions, and delivered food to AIDS shut-ins. I also ran camps for Mexican and Navajo street children, as well as the younger siblings of the Grape Street Crips in Watts.

Jesus didn't go to VBS* or Awanas*, Halee. He spent his time with the poor, the crippled, and the sick. He even hung out with prostitutes. Get off your High Jesus Horse, please.

NOW, I award you:


from the Father





from the Son





from the Holy Ghost.




May God have mercy on my soul.

*links for the unchurched heathens

Your Shit Is Bananas

If you don't fucking fix your fucking template, I'm going to bribe one of those twelve-year olds that sells pot down the street to kickstart your labia with his rusty hockey blades.

I understand you're a "simple girl whose hair is messy," which insinuates you're above such menial worries as physical appearance. Admirable enough, but you don't need to prove it to us by shitting out a template that looks like a crappy toy from a vending machine, with that fuckjumble of widgetry. You want a conglomerate of widgets? Fine. You don't even have that many, you wannabee widget collector. Some people collect ceramic chickens, but at least they commit and organize their compilations like the respectable foaming obsessives they are.

I cannot focus on your entries because of your failed photobucket background image. Your title is a grammatical tragedy that reminds me of Sheryl Crow, and not throaty, folksy Sheryl Crow that can pass for good music but pitchy, strained, eye-gouge-y Sheryl Crow. Thank god you stopped that whole rainbow of font colors thing, because I was two posts away from John Wayne Gacying your ass.

Listen Sameera, I'm glad you're so thankful for everything in your life, because honest appreciation is a rarity. Keep it up. I sincerely hope you don't change that, I hope the cynics of the world feel shame in the face of your sunshine.

But here is what you are missing: reason. You love nature, you love sandals, you love itineraries, you love putting shit into categories, you love conversations, you love loving things. I would demand you prove it, but I believe you. There are so many goddamn enthusiastic exclamation points, you have to mean fucking business.

But I don't give a shit that you love them, because I don't know why. What's so fucking great about nature? Do you tag your memories with seasons? When you smell the chill of the air, do you imagine your dog shoveling his nose in a snowdrift and plowing his way towards you, sneezing and flinging snow in his wake? He smashes his nose into your knees and barks, demanding you join him on the ground. He spins and ducks under himself, falls and rolls and grabs your pantleg with his teeth, dragging you down to his level because he loves the snow; it reminds him of being alive.

That's what I love about nature: it demands a reaction by always existing and changing every single day. If you have nothing to talk about, there's always the weather. Everyone has an opinion about the weather, and everyone has an opinion about whether the weather is a topic worthy of discussion at all. It is brilliant.

So let's hear it. Tell me why. This is a good start, this is better. But do it, please, without so many exclamation points and ellipses and ill-placed commas. Please, please, please pleasepleasepleaseplease, prettyshiny please, sack those fucking exclamation points. Lose them. Ima gonna string your exclamation points into a noose and fucking strangle you with it if you keep that shit up.

As an aside, just a little gripe, but "Serial killers!!!" is a fucking enthusiastically terrifying title for a post. It conjures visions of a messy-haired girl sitting cross-legged in a room with tree frog corpses tacked to the walls named Bill! and Spot! and Mr. Slimey Face! She's meticulously filing the fingerprints off her collection of severed hands, each one fated for painting and stenciling the outlines of turkeys for nefarious handmade blog award widgets. She raises her head and grins. "I love it when my fellow bloggers lend a helping hand!!!!!" she squeals, giggling into her shadow. That girl, by the way, is you.

Until then you start giving me a reason to give a shit, you fall short of, well, everything except being exceedingly creepy sometimes.

Could you hold this for a sec? Yeah, it's just my emotional depth.

Hi, my name is Rohini. I am a vibrant nineteen years old, and I've got it all figured out.

I discover truths every day that you never contemplate, because I am different.

I am lost and wandering and idealistic and I write mediocre poetry to prove how whimsical and romantic I can be, and I totally understand the plight of the underprivileged because I took a course on it after prep school. Don't judge me because I'm from Suburban Jerkwater, India. I'm not like them. I am different. I get it. See? Here is one college essay that proves my profundity, which is a word I learned in my thesaurus.

You know what? I'm pretty sure I wrote college papers on a whole slew of topics that are a bigger deal than your slew of topics, so I will just go ahead and give you a couple of those.

As you can tell, I am very insightful. Here, catch. Another poem. It's about soldiers because I understand them in my soul. This is because I am sage.

But don't let the heft of my soul intimidate you! I am a regular teenager and I goof off with my friends! Yes, that is a very long one, but I was so excited about telling you I had fun that I couldn't bother with paragraphs and splitting up the entries by day, because we did so much! :)

Wait, what? Oh. Um, okay. You want to hear something...you want me to show you what it was like. I heard that once. Show don't tell. But I'm trying to show...I am trying too hard? How can you try too...oh, like I'm trying to be impressive instead of just being me.

Well, okay, I wrote this once, but I don't know, I mean, it's kind of ramblesome but it's how I really feel. I don't know. I just really miss them. Yeah. I mean, and I started this internship, and now I kind of...you know. Lately I've been thinking that there is so much I have to learn.

Autoplaying tunes? Fuck you. Just...Fuck you.

While you primates were off exploring the world with your opposable thumbs, us lizards decided to take the party underground. Betwixt champagne, caviar and interspecific orgies we surface now and then to host talk shows on Fox news. It's a good life, I tell ya'.

Whiteboy Style. I have been asked, nay tasked, to assess whether I share my premium single malt or have Monty rend your insides with his sharp talons. Given that your species is waking up to the joys of tolerance, I figured this was a blog for the well groomed young Caucasian male.

And by golly was I wrong. Your header image features you (or someone else) in garb reminiscent of a failed reality TV star. Your tagline is "Keeping Midgets As Pets Since 1998". Oh good, midget humor is so edgy and original, how long did it take to come up with that one?

It's been so long since you last wrote, my neighbor Henry has molted twice since. Then again, that was when you picked a fight with a Twilight fan. I lost patience a few seconds into the post, I'd much rather headbutt a concrete wall. Navigating your blog is an impossible task. On my list of priorities, wading through a daily archive is somewhere in between tongue splitting and stuffing mustard up my cloacae.

Putting the jar of French's aside, I delved deeper. Another Twilight post. Senseless updates. More embedded videos. I'll watch Tosh.0 for recycled garbage from the internet, there's no point in posting drivel if you don't have the motivation to write. Every second post seems to be about you restarting your blog. Make up your mind chief, I have a mass extinction to attend at 4.

Look "whiteboy", you show promise. When not regurgitating opinions or fucking up your website with lolcats, you seem to have a voice. It's nothing I haven't seen or read (I am a dinosaur after all), but it shows you're trying. You can even be funny. Why would you take the easy way out and quarrel with hate mail? Think of writing as exercise. It can be brutal and unrewarding at first, but it gets better. Only if you want to, and only when you try.

Your website is clean and minimal, and my monochrome vision appreciates that. You have a few links on the sidebars, which I saved for the last. After having seen my share of genitalia on chat roulette, I steered clear of the webcam link. "Wall scratchings" must be some sort of comment form, I wouldn't know - there's more spam there than in my emergency rations.

In the dark ages of the internet, there was Myspace. It was an elaborate prank teenagers used to get strangers to listen to shit masquerading as music. Autoplaying tunes to me is what a bucket of water is to middle-eastern men in Gitmo. It is a well known fact that dinosaurs are fans of late-80s speed metal, so listening to the drivel on your "Demo CD" page made my ears bleed. I'm not your demographic, but I assume your diehard fans would be capable of simple tasks like clicking a play button. Kill that autoplay option already. Fix your archive, good site design shows you care about your readers - new and old.

When I first saw this blog last week, I found a dead link to "The Crew". It's gone now, and the questions remain. Who are you? What are you up to? You're clearly alive, your homepage changed in the last one week. Where are you now? Why waste my time on a review if you can't be arsed to update your own blog?

For showing promise in 1.5 posts and making me ask for more you get




For submitting a dead blog, filled with junk and autoplaying tunes you get three flaming fingers. James, fetch my slippers, it's time for supper.

All apologies

I'm sorry, Rachel, that the universe picked the one reviewer who loathes fluffy, empty-headed suburban chicks whose brains have apparently been hulu'ed by the hot Florida sun with a special passion verging on virulent nausea, for you.

I'm sorry that your blog suffers in comparison to that of a high school student's in terms of depth and creativity.

I'm sorry that I loathe pink polka dots with the icy hatred that Hilary Clinton's vagina reserves for Bill's wandering penis.

I'm sorry that I reserve a special disdain for women who can't cook, and in fact, don't even know what a clove of garlic is.

In short, I'm sorry you got me, because I FUCKING HATE YOUR BLOG.

Should you have received another reviewer, they might have been tempted to cut you some slack.

I am not so inclined.

Your blog is everything that is wrong with the blogosphere, in specific, and humanity, in general.

Who would read this hot mess? I can't find anything, at all, in your blog that makes me care about you or want to know you. It's all superficial nonsense, like what kind of shoes you want, or what you ate for dinner, or your daughter's vomit, without anything REAL.

I want you to do something. Read this post.

Then, read this:

The world is so much bigger than me. & in a way, it took me until just now, on july 13, 2007, at 1:10 in the morning to figure that out. I'm at my dad's apartment laying in bed and I start thinking about an article I read on myyearbook today. It was about a teen who had become a vegetarian. That isn't what made it so memorable. It was the part about how many fast food restaurants like Mcdonald's are paying to clear-cut the rainforest so they can graze cattle and other animals for their food products. That's terrible yes, but then a few minutes ago, i went onto google and searched for rainforest clearcutting. I came to a site, that even though it's information should be extremely reassuring, did not help my state of mind whatsoever. I'm not sure what to believe about global warming, and Clear Cutting, and Fossil Fuels. I want so much to believe that global warming is just a natural stage in the Earth's but what if it isn't? It just freaks me out. I mean, I'm 13, I'm confused, I'm not sure what to believe and i'm worried. Honestly, I cared more about finding a boyfriend and being with friends more than i cared about things going on across the world. I'm just a shallow teenager Lol. How depressing.

Guess what, Rachel? Your blog just had it's ass kicked by a teenaged blog. My teenager, for the record.

Sure, I'm filled with parental pride, but I also want you to see how your blog starts at mundane and never leaves it. There is never any point, there is never any growth, and there is never any introspection or reflection. You have less depth than a middle-schooler.

Your blog, in fact, reminds me of a conversation I eavesdropped on between two teenagers in my backseat this weekend.

Sarah: "I look around at life, and I have all these thoughts going on inside my head at once, and I feel like my head is hardly big enough to hold them all in. And, I look at Jessica, and I see that her life is incredibly simple. We're sitting down to eat, and inside her head, as clear as day, her brain is saying, 'Pull out the chair. Don't slip. Sit down.' And, I wonder what it would be like to only be thinking at one thing at a time, but maybe I will never know."

My daughter: "On the other hand, Jessica hardly ever falls off of chairs like we do."

Rachel: Your blog is Jessica's brain. I bet you never fall off of chairs. However, your blog sucks balls.

Here's my advice:

Go to facebook.
Create a profile.
Talk about shoes.
Give the blogosphere a rest.

That's all. I apologize for hating your blog and everything it stands for in my head, but I can't help myself.

So, beauty IS only skin deep

Goody fucking gumdrops.

I had myself a semi when I saw the name of the blog up for review, Tatooed Mama.

I have both tattooed, and I have a mama, so this should be right up my street.

‘Lovely stuff’ I thought, ‘we’ll get some great drunken inking stories from a spunky lady living it up with kid in tow’.

I was wrong. Very wrong.

Credit where it’s due, the blog looks good. Nice and pretty, not laden down with bling.
Also, she does state very clearly what the blog is all about:

“…marriage, tattoos, cupcakes, little one, my love for electronics, and even useful info.. You know, things that I think you need to know or buy.”

Hideously, that is very accurate.

That’s where the credit ends, why anyone other than family or stalkers would be interested is beyond me.

It’s very, very dull.

There are almost zero personal entries in there. So few in fact, I can show you the highlights.
This, as it includes her gorgeous daughter and farting noises, was funny. This, I thought would be the beginning of something interesting as I moved through the archives, but there it ended, and we were promptly back to frosting, or her blackberry, or one of her other sites, or why she’s changed her layout for the 643rd time.

Telling us over and over again that you are not a writer doesn't help matters.

Frustrating to read, especially when she gave a faint glimpse of some of the sarky attitude she has.

Oddly enough, on Monday I visited the blog and none of the navigation worked, everything landed back on the front page. Unfortunately for me, by Tuesday it was back in working order, but I soon found that the whole thing could have been easily summed up by those front page entries.

You seem like an interesting lady but you don’t show us any of it. Cute kid, interesting body art, but a dreadfully boring blog, and frankly I’d rather scrape the tattoo of Freddie Mercury off my scrotum with a rusty spoon than read another entry.

At best, I'm the wrong audience by a country mile, at worst this is so very, very:







(I guess I’ve blown my chances of having a freebie from the husband?)

She returns: The WTF series

Seriously, WTF? Today's blog is called "hooker parking spaces," but it is nothing I am used to. Shit. I was hoping for hookers, to tell you the truth. Nothing like prostitution to keep my attention riveted.

But what I've found here is kind of a mess. I think this is what happens when you cross the source of all evil (Microsoft) with blogging. And here I was just bitching and moaning about blogspot.

My first advice, dude, is move this. Put it on blogspot, or typepad, or livejournal or something. This format is too strange and too hard to follow.

I think that you might have something interesting to say, and a story worth reading, but when you haven't blogged since January of 07, and then the next post skips backwards 8 fucking years to 1999, I'm just left shaking my head and muttering to myself like the wild-haired homeless woman who seems to mainly reside on the sidewalk by the grocery store down the road.

So, some basic rules if you want people to read your blog:

1. Title it.
2. Keep the same font throughout the blog.
3. Post on a regular basis (at least once a week).
4. Give some introductory background of who you are and what you are doing so I don't have to read for an hour to figure that shit out.
5. NO AUTOPLAY MUSIC. NEVER, EVER, EVER. UGH.
6. Get a template/layout that makes it easier for people to figure out what the hell you are doing.

I really hate it when people slap shit up online without any rhyme or reason. It baffles and confuses me, and it leaves me in an extremely foul mood.

If you're going for the minimalist look, I suggest something like this. See, it has room for your profile (where you can tell us more about your sexy ass), and room for you to post photos of your journeys on flickr and have them show up on your blog. If you need help, consider e-mailing me or one of the other folks on here. The writing is good, but it's fucking hard to get through because of how it's formatted.

Okay so...I give it a

But you, you I give a because you are a soldier, and I fucking love a man in uniform.

Srsly, though...implement these suggestions pronto, or I will court-martial your blog.

xoxox,

Lil Love Bites

Attack of the boring mommy bloggers

Hello, y'all, it's just cheerful ole me on this rainy spring day. I'm doing a two-some here because, frankly, I suck. And I forgot to do a review last week. But it is the first time...EVER. So there. I stick my tongue out at all the other slacker reviewers whose ranks I've joined.

Okay...first up: Temporarily Me. Oh, goodie. Another mommy blogger. Call me cynical and jaded, but as a mom with two kids, I'm not all that interested in reading about the exploits of a toddler. The new kid smell wore off a while ago. If you must blog about your kid, I have two thoughts: 1) short and pithy--make me pee my pants laughing or, 2) post pictures.

I like some things about this person...she has mommy whine wine nights. I love those. Her musical taste on her profile is decent but girl...HINDER? WTF are you thinking? That is just crap...the musical equivalent of potted meat...overprocessed and totally disgusting.

C'mon now.

The template? dearest, you way overpaid for this. Your template designer did a sloppy job cutting the graphic and putting it on your header. The text she used was practically illegible. There isn't enough contrast between the background colors and the link colors (pale blue on peach? Do you want to make me go blind?) And, she should have created cute text captions for you on the ACTUAL BACKGROUND COLOR. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

In answer to the question of "are you tempted?" by temptation designs, the answer for me at least would have to be HELL NO. Just say no. You can get a way better design for free, truthfully.

And the colors are weird.

I give it one star because she's clearly trying, but this blog needs some help. And...just say NO to "blog explosion" and "rent your blog" too. ugh. Before you start pimping your blog out, why not make sure there is some worthy content there to pimp?



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Next up...oh good, another Mommy Blog (aka: Who Said That Crap?). (sigh)

The layout? Much, much better. (Temporarily, do you see how her colors contrast so you can read her text and how the cute font matches the background? Now, go kick your lazy template designer's shoddy arse). It could be improved by getting rid of the blogger navbar (which your designer should have done for you). Way too much fucking crap in the sidebar. Consider drop-down boxes for the archives and recent posts. Get rid of everything after "contact me." And don't center your sidebar vertically, for Christ's sake.

The content? Zzzzz. No train wrecks, kinky sex, three-somes, or chick crushes for me here. And I have a few words of advice, straight from one of my blog crushes..."I do wish you would get over your unhealthy reliance upon the caps lock."

I'm sure your friends love it, but there is nothing of interest for me on either of these blogs. I gave blog #2 one star for effort.



And both bloggers should count themselves lucky that I am in a super good mood today, because truthfully, on a Monday, they'd have gotten flaming fingers.

Mommy bloggers, instead of blogging, why not get a nice livejournal or a myspace? Haven't you ever considered one of those? Because really, y'all want to network, not write. And that's what you should do. You won't need to pimp your blogs (and you are both TOO. FUCKING. WHITE. to ever use the term pimp) if you actually learn to write well...

(Brevity is the soul of wit. Read it. Learn it. Live it.)

ahem. Back to my regularly scheduled spring rainshower.

p.s. Make that "Attack of the Whiney Mommy Bloggers." Whoa. They hate me. They really hate me.

Again, people, we don't review the unwilling. Y'all submitted for review. You asked for it, and you got it. Now stop acting like whiney babies or