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.

      

Death Trap

A few weeks ago, there was a spirited discussion on this blog about Indian kids showing up en masse seeking reviews from the soulless jerks that run this outfit. Amidst the usual talk about skull-fuckery and sodomy, we were left scratching our crania for answers. This week is the perfect example of a week in the life of this blog - 1 blog was decomposed cat litter, 2 blogs are from where this guy lives. And this guy.

I've always thought humor was universal, that a man eaten alive by a pack of compys would be as funny in Swahili as in English. But reading today's reviewee has me doubting that assumption. Forgive me for the bias, but "Kaushik's Magical World of Nonsense" already sounds like a bastard child of H2G2 and the Discworld series. But I shrugged off that feeling and dove in for the review. Kaushik, from his blogger profile, is a shoe. Well that didn't make any sense, so back I went to his blog. It appears that Kaushik is a student of the assembly line of Indian geniuses "Indian Institute of Technology" which means he'll soon make more in a year than I ever have.

Where do I begin? I ignored the 2 latest posts - I don't read poems, and will not follow you on to your "other" blogs. So a post imaginatively titled "My trip to Bhutan" is a start. As I read on, I realized I was badly mistaken in my bias and that I was in the company of a literary heavyweight who made words do his bidding. His thoughts opened up a tired old predator's mind to the mystical wisdom from the east. His posts were sublime, evocative of what every aspiring writer hopes to become, and should finally change everyone's opinion about bloggers from India.

Just kidding. Kaushik rambles on without pausing once to breathe, think or contemplate editing. He repeats phrases and humor "devices" (lame ones at that). Back to your post on that trip to Bhutan - I tried reading it Kaushik, I really did. About a third into that cesspool of minutiae, I scrolled down to check on how much was left and all I could do was yell "FAAAAAAAAAK YOU". Why bother with verbiage if it adds up to nothing? Why is brevity such a lost art? Stretching a story out for comedic value has worked in the past, but it took a Kaufman-esque reveal in the end to keep things interesting.

I do not need to prove that I spent time reading your blog, that I tried searching long and hard for something redeeming. And what I dfaskl;dfhasfkljas';asjdglkasdgjaskl;dgjasdkl'gjasdg. Wait sorry, that was me banging my snout to the keyboard in frustration. You seem to have attended some sort of writing workshop, and if this is the product, I'd suggest asking for a refund. And the heads of the idiots who encouraged you. It also appears that you've authored some prose or a play or whatever the fuck this means. Good lord, mercy be upon the souls subjected to your dimwitted humor.

I really have no "advice" for the reviewee, some things are beyond repair. To those looking for some entertainment this Wednesday afternoon, I'd recommend stabbing your eyes with something sharp and metallic, and downing a gallon of bleach. The ambulance ride will keep you more engaged than this inane collection of thoughts, poems and "jokes".

Five Fuckin' Flamin' Fingers.

Did the vibrating universe tell you this shit ball was coming your way?

I'll admit it, I worry about my karma sometimes. I worry that this nasty little endeavor may somehow putrefy my already gangrenous, skid marked soul with each review I write. I know that sometimes the energy I'm putting forth into the universe is riddled with negativity and I know that this energy will somehow find its way back to me and probably wreck anal havoc on me with a giant spiked dildo when I least expect it.

I know the world doesn't need more assholes. I get that. Really, I do.

But El,there are certain things I can't read, walk away from calmly, and not want to set your minivan on fire, I'm sorry.

Reading your blog is like having someone try to convince me to sign up for a seminar on the power of positive real estate when all I want to do is bury my dead cat that I've been keeping in my freezer. Does that make sense?

Listen, I'm not going to any fucking seminar, so you can forget about it. And I don't want to buy any of the shit you have in the back of your van. You can keep your insight about crystals and your tips on how to connect with hummingbirds.

Oh, what? You're not selling anything? Then why does every one of your posts read like a mix between a condescending infomercial and a scaremongering headline read aloud in baby talk?

Why does reading your blog remind me of all that I hate about our consumerist media culture because the only way you can think to frame your writing is in the context of a cheesy, poorly executed sales pitch? I cannot for the life of me figure out why you want to sell me on your perfectly green spiritually vibrating ohmified life of oneness as if it were an erectile dysfunction medication or a box of cereal.

When you aren't selling me on your perfect life, you're telling me about the problems you have already overcome, your posts being akin to self-contained sitcoms where everything resolves itself before the 30 minutes are up. No cliffhangers, no character development that I can even remotely identify with, no compromised heroes, no layers of emotion. Just a big ass pile of happy perfection wrapped up in a moldy tortilla of tired, greener-than-thou proselytizing.

This is all interspersed with your being salted and pummeled by your own mental shit show, confirming to the reader that you are far from having your shit together like you're constantly reminding your readers with the graceful subtlety of an ice pick to the head.

I wanted to give you a MEH, really I did, just to not filth up the universe and all. But you earned yourself a MEH based on exclamation point abuse alone and so once I added everything else I hated about your blog, I could only give you this:

Misanthropic Drunkenness

The only time I watch reality television is when I visit my parents. There, I am forced to sit through hours of random shows they've saved on their Tivo. Sometimes it's kickass, like "Pawn Stars" (FYI: a kickass Antiques Roadshow, run by assholes and idiots). Sometimes it's mildly watchable and can hold my interest, like "Survivor" or "Dancing With the Stars". Luckily, my parents' tastes don't run towards the the more voyeuristic side of reality television.

I say luckily, because I would gouge my own eyes out from boredom if I was forced to sit down and watch that shit.

And now, I've been asked to review a blog which recaps the latest episodes of "The Real World". Jesus.

First off, I don't understand these shows at all. Why is it entertaining to get sucked into a stranger's fucked-up, self-destructive world? Does it make you feel better about yourself? Because your life isn't as fucked up? Do you think you're better than them?

Funny story. You're not.

My advice to THE WORLD: Maybe spend some long, hard hours thinking about your life (maybe with the help of a therapist). Because seeing fucked up people like those who pimp themselves out on reality television makes me weep for the future of our world and contemplate ever having children. If these are the type of people my precious, genius-babies would have to deal with, it makes me want to schedule a hysterectomy ASAP.

I'm not gonna wait for the unnamed, ungendered blog writer to show up in the comment section and claim they're actually making satirical commentary about the whole show. No, sirree. I'm gonna beat ya to the punch, bucko. You've invested time and effort into watching this show and recapping the events. You actually care about it, otherwise you wouldn't write about it.

Do you realize you can actually put together a sentence, have correct grammar and spelling, and can tell a story fairly well? What the fuck. Why are you wasting your life living vicariously through other people's fucked-up ones? We want to hear about YOUR REAL LIFE. If we wanted to know about the "real lives" of the cast of "The Real World", we'd just watch the fucking show.

That's another thing. Why would someone who is into that godawful show want to read about it online? Didn't they watch it themselves? And if they didn't, why wouldn't they just Tivo it or watch it streaming from some other (not quite legal) source? Or watch the 8 million reruns that MTV airs every day? I don't understand.

Writing this review has made me hate people even more. I didn't think it was possible. Congrats.

I especially hate you, Unnamed-Ungendered-Blog-Writer, because I forgot about writing this review until I was three drinks in at the bar and you've ruined my buzz.

For renewing my misanthropic side and harshing my mellow, you get a:







And now I'm going to pass out.

Mayor of Red Flag Town

Several years ago, I was all about the online dating. At one point, I'd lined up dates with six different dudes in a matter of two weeks. Through all those coffee dates fraught with weirdos in dad jeans and potential kidnappers/rapists/murderers, I started doing something to prevent my time from being wasted by asshats.

As soon as these dudes would contact me, I'd begin mentally tallying their "red flags". Nothing makes me lose my lady-boner faster than a couple red flags. And nothing makes me lose my blog-boner faster either.

But that's exactly what happened when I began reading The Cool Jerks, which was created to help dudes understand how to meet and date women.

BLOODY RED FLAGS ON FIRE. ALL. OVER. THE. PLACE. PEOPLE. "Twiggy" doesn't understand women, and he sure as hell doesn't know how to blog. And since he is inept at both, how the hell does this toolbag expect to give online advice about women?

Answer: He can't.

Red Flag #1 - First impressions actually matter, Twigster, and you don't seem to give a shit about the impression you're making.

• You have two sidebars filled with meaningless shit. It's like you've dowsed yourself in Axe Body Spray. Less is more, dude.
  
• You have redundant tabs and "click to read more" posts. You look messy and lazy, and in desperate need of a makeover, which is just waaaay too much work.
• You're asking for PayPal donations. What the fuck for? You cheap bastard.
• You have tons of paid-to-click advertisements. You're into money more than you're into self-development. Classy.
  

What's pathetic is all of that could have been prevented, but . . .

Red Flag #2 - You never read our online profile before contacting us.

Did you read the FAQ before submitting here? Fuck no, you didn't. Thanks for making it obvious you care more about getting web traffic, than about having respect for our time, asswipe. Really, what you were looking for here is the blog review equivalent of a "wham, bam, thank you, ma'am".

You need to sweet talk the lady, get to know her a bit, and if you're lucky enough to climb her bell tower, you need to make sure you ring her fucking bell. As of now, I feel objectified, used, and completely unsatisfied. Nice job.

Red Flag #3 - Your online profile says nothing about you.

The "About Us" tab just reiterates what's on your home page. I had to trek halfway down your sidebar and click a link to ANOTHER site, before I got a legit "About Me" page. The only reason I took the effort to figure out who the hell you are, is because I'm reviewing your site, not because I actually care.

If you make it too hard for someone to get to know you, they won't bother, genius.

Red Flag #4 - Your writing is incoherent.

Your grasp of the English language is mediocre at best. Which would be fine, since it's not your mother tongue . . .but you're writing for an English-reading audience. Your writing doesn't flow at all, because you use incorrect punctuation, grammar and spelling, on top of repeatedly misusing words. For instance, here you use the word "viscous". I do not think it means what you think it means.

Microsoft Word's grammar and spell check won't cut the mustard, cowboy. To avoid looking completely bush league, you need to actually look up the meaning of the word before you use it. And why would anyone take your advice (or date your lameass), if you can't be bothered to take the time to be professional and coherent?

Red Flag #5 - You're halfass about communication.

You have blog posts dating back to 2008, but you only have 40 posts. WTF. Your last post was a month ago, which is just an embedded video, and the post before that is from March. Maybe try a little harder, and you'd get more of attention from readers. And the ladies. Jesus.

Red Flag #6 - You have no fucking clue who you are at all.

Your posts flip-flop between "be a real man and develop yourself" and "this is how you play asshole head games with the ladies". You say your site is "dedicated to the self development of men" and your tagline is "Redefining Jerks". But then you make repeated references to being a pick-up artist, and advise men to purchase a whole slew of books on "how to play women". So which is it? Are you trying to help men develop themselves as people, or help them get laid? Because they're not even close to being the same thing, bucko.

Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, if you ACTUALLY developed yourself as a person for your own sake, cultivated some interests outside of picking up women, got over your obvious issues and got your shit together (meaning become a fucking adult who doesn't drunkenly puke on himself), you might not have to play games with women? Because all those things foster confidence, which is far more attractive than the shit you have going on now.

Red Flag #7 - I have a sneaking suspicion you're one of those "nice guys" who are actually "passive-aggressive douchebags".

These bitches have been blogging about fuckers like you for YEARS. I'll let them have at it.

Red Flag #8 - On the other hand, I'm pretty sure you're really a full-on misogynistic asshole.

Women are innately addicted to dating assholes. Women are only after money and "feeling good". Women should only be cheerleaders, beauty queens or chefs. Women are just walking tits, asses and vaginas, nothing more.

Those stereotypes exist for a reason, because there are girls out there who believe them and do nothing but live up to them. But there's a difference between girls and women, sweetcheeks.

Have you ever heard the phrase, "you attract what you are"? If you go through life believing those fucked up stereotypes, you will only attract girls who live up to them, which is exactly the type of female your site is trying to help men avoid. Do you see the vicious (not viscous) cycle?

I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. The type of WOMAN you and your Cool Jerk buddies are scheming to meet would have abso-fucking-lutely NOTHING to do with you in real life. Hell, you've got a single, intelligent, smoking hot lady in her 20's writing this review. I'm your fucking dream woman, and I'm gonna tell y'all something: I've had an outbreak of vagina dentata after reading this shit.

So, I award you a nice



for using us to get website traffic, a






for not reading the FAQ and wasting my time, and a






for being a misogynistic fucktard. I hate you.

Are Your Parents Siblings?

Sometimes I have an irritable bowel that acts up. When my irritable bowel doesn’t act up I am a charming little sweet pea. When it does act up, (and I consider acting up three trips to the bathroom in less than thirty minutes because I need to expel huge volumes of diarrhea) I get mighty dehydrated, crampy, and bitchy. But other than that, I am an easy going kind of girl. B-u-b-b-l-e-girl made me feel the same way my irritable bowel makes me feel sometimes—dehydrated, crampy, and bitchy.

When I made my way to Bubblegirl, I saw this title and thought, "oh goody. I love sex and bendy people!" But then I read on and realized it was a colossal let-down. There wasn’t anything really sexy about it.

Bubblegirl has a disease, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome is a group of inherited disorders that affect your connective tissues. Some of the more prominent symptoms of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome include flexible joints that extend beyond the normal range of movement. Oh, and you have skin that is especially stretchy or fragile. Not that you would know any of that from Bubblegirl’s blog.

The title of the blog is Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome: Deal With It. The rest of the title should say, "If you like married hypochondriacs that have absolutely nothing interesting to say."

About Me sections are for giving the reader pertinent info that will help them learn about you and your lame ass blog. All I got from your About Me section is that you are from Canada and you like karaoke. If you want people to deal with the fact that you have this disease that no one has ever heard of, write about something other than this fucking disease. It is very hard for others to not define you by this god-awful affliction if that is all you have to say. And unfortunately for me, this is all you have to say. Over and over and over again.

Bubblegirl doesn’t even post enough to actually warrant a review. At the time of this review she has posted 52 times in 2 years. If this is a way of keeping friends and family informed of the latest round of tests or whatever bullshit is going on with you, I have a brilliant suggestion. Get your family and friend’s e-mails together and send them updates. Please do this so that others who want to write and can’t imagine their existence without words in a row don’t have to share space with you on Blogger (which is the only thing you are doing right at the moment). This is going to hurt, but am saying it anyway. While I was trying to find a morsel of redeeming quality about your blog I found myself popping back over to WebMD and the Mayo Clinic website because their info on your particular disease was way more interesting than the mundane bullshit on your blog.

When I saw this or this, I was constantly screaming, "Tell me why in the blue fuck I should care about this litany of ailments?" If you thought having Ehlers-Danlos was shitty, try having to read about all these boring ass things you go through. It is excruciating.

Here is where you have to make a decision. Tell me why you are using a vibrator, how it really makes you feel that you are the real life inspiration for the movie Unbreakable, and explain just what kind of dumbasses stumble across your path as a secretary or just stop. And by stop, I mean end your blog. But I wonder if you want your blog to be anything more than medical updates. If that is the case, why would you ask to be reviewed? You need to read this review, and this hint and then give your final answer. There are about 37 other things I wanted to tell you to do but until you reconcile the content/writing issue, there really isn’t a point to even bringing those up.

I bet you are a nice girl. I bet you are fun to be around for like the first five minutes until you start complaining about your sprained finger from washing dishes. I bet I would have a beer with you if you didn’t post pics of this.

Having a shitty disease and maybe being nice doesn’t make me be nice. Dame Chisel doesn’t like to waste time. And your blog is a waste of time. A long, boring, mind-numbing waste of time. This review was my first for AAYSR. I am almost pissed that my reviewing cherry was popped on this gigantic turd. But everyone’s first time can’t be perfect. Now I can get back to something really worthwhile, like dealing with my irritable bowel.

I wanted to give you this

But instead I gave you this because you do have this awful disease and it’s obviously the only thing you’ve got going for you.

Spawn of the Dead

Hey peeps. I'm back from the undead, and ready to rumble.

Lucky Scary Mommy is taking a spin at Pacific Playland today.

I should start by saying, ever so sarcastically, that I love a mommyblog. I especially have big love for a mommy blog that includes all of my personal pet peeves.

For instance:

Cash for posts? Check.

Boring, substandard content? Check.

Pictures of children I don't know and in whom I'm uninterested, in lieu of content? Check.

Pretending to be hyperbadassfoulmouthedcoolmom? Check (and god, I am thoroughly sick of this one...)

This is formaldehyde-scented death wrapped up in a shiny red & white package. The posts are stiff, the content feels posed, and there isn't a single uncontrived sentence on this blog. Oh, goodie. I've encountered the undead Kate Gosselin of the blogosphere.

Up front, a quick list of the things I hate:

I hate the three-column template with 1 main post and additional posts shown as snippets underneath that require additional clicks. I particularly hate that this template makes it difficult to get back to the main page.

I hate the ads that "scary" mom is using to subsidize her blogstyle.

I hate the content.

I don't hate the kids, but I hate that their mom is using them to create a name for herself and build an evil undead mommy blogging empire (muahahhahahaahahah!). Scary Mommy is begging for a nail-studded baseball bat and a sharp pair of hedge trimmers.

Scary Mommy is never real. For the record, real bleeds. Real sweats, real cries, real poops. This is what real looks like:

...no words I put down can fully capture the aching emptiness I feel at giving birth to babies and coming home from the hospital without them. What we endure to bring our babies into the world is easily forgotten when we cuddle the thing so hard won. When we smell its soft head, trace our fingers down a chubby, pink body, whisper silliness and love into its ears. But I don't have that now. I sit alone in rooms and wonder about the new lives I just ushered too early into the world. I carry guilt heavy in my chest. Why wasn't I strong enough to carry them to term? What defect brought on labor at 33 weeks?

...read more

Real moms agonize. They blame themselves, they address their fears of not being good enough, they bitch, they moan, they show their asses. They say, "This shit ain't easy, and it ain't for suckas, yo?"

Scary Mommy is not real in any sense of the word that is meaningful, at least to imperfect mothers like me. She's glib, heartless, and flippant. She died a while ago, but no one has noticed since she plods along in exactly the same happy dead way.

My objective system of blog rating goes like this. If the blog so fascinates me that I'd drive 60 miles out of my way on a business trip to meet the blogger, it's a damn good blog. If I'd drive 10 miles, it's decent. If I'd consider running the blogger down in the grocery store parking lot, it's going to get a flaming finger. If I need to put the double tap into effect, it needs to fuck off and die already, because it's already 78% dead. It's pretty scientific, when you think about it.

So...I would never sit down for cheap margaritas in some chain restaurant in the wilds of New Jersey with Scary Mommy. I do not read her blog and think, "I'd like to meet this fascinating woman." Instead, I think: "She has no soul. She is a zombie who might eat my brains for an appetizer instead of the Mexican eggrolls. Where the hell is my sawed off shotgun?"

There are good mommy blogs out there written by women with heart, courage, humor, passion, and zeal.

Scary Mommy isn't one of 'em.

What rating do I give this fake/dead blog? I felt the need to create something new:










And for making me waste my time...

Newsflash: If you tell me you're funny, you already suck

Imagine a friend sets you up with some dude. When you ask what he looks like, your friend can't even remember, probably because there is absolutely nothing about his colorless appearance that distinguishes him in any way from the 6 billion other people walking around. He's blander than cardboard dipped in liquefied brown rice.

But you can get beyond looks and so you agree to a phone conversation that could potentially turn into a date if he dazzles you with his personality.

The dude calls you up and for a few seconds seems normal, even coherent, besides the fact that he speaks about himself in third person and goes on and on about his childhood for the first 20 seconds of your conversation, and has a terrible habit of repeating stupid shit he's already said. You decide to let it slide assuming maybe he's a poor planner and didn't know what the fuck to say.

Before you have even had a full minute to decide how this person comes across, he informs you that he is funny, and lets on that he has Humor Bloggers Disease, the bloggers' STD of self-flattery usually based on the number of morons they can get to click on a banner in their ugly-ass sidebar. In mere seconds, his lexical frying pan just killjoyed your disappointed face.

Now that he has prematurely publicized his funniness, thereby insulting you by assuming you lack the wherewithal to decide what funny consists of, every single thing that now comes out of his unmemorable pie hole is examined with unmitigated scrutiny. This then renders whatever would have been even remotely funny no longer fucking funny at all.

Three fat jokes, one Muslim joke, one Mexican joke, and one retard joke later and you tell him:

You know what?









And you hang up the phone.

Land of wonder, spices, mystery, and incredibly dull bloggers

India has attacked us again. I blame Crowley, who I'm certain is somehow responsible for the fact that all of the blogs up for review in the queue right now are from India.

Fuck me sideways with a pickle. One of these pieces of refuse is clearly dead, so I'm discarding it. One has opted out on being reviewed. The other two aren't enough, singularly, to deserve an entire post.

First, Summer Diary. Ugly black & white template, and I have no idea what this person is doing. I like teenagers, I had a house full of them on Saturday, but this blog is like attempting to decipher meaningless gibberish posted on random coconuts and tossed into the ocean to arrive willy nilly on the shores of our brains.

I feel dumber for having spent 20 minutes on the site.

Fuck you for submitting to us, you stupid twat.



Secondly, this one. God save us from the unrelenting angst of teenagers. Were we all this inwardtwisted awkwardness? But some of it holds drops of promise. To that promise, I say...use good grammar. Choose your words more carefully. If you write dialogue, make it cleaner and more clearly identify who is speaking. Keep writing. Clean up your sidebar, and find a better place for the quote under your header bar. Don't try so hard to be unique, but instead focus on distilling your words until they are really and truly yours.

I give you a single star, work upwards to the rest.



These are my missives to India, sent in a digital bottle.

p.s. More importantly, if you were going to be an ironic, made-up superhero, who would you be?

Pond Scum

Once upon a time, there was a nerdy college law student who wrote about his ridiculously stupid exploits, and got a book/movie deal.

His name is Tucker Max. And, he has one winning characteristic: he's funny. You read his stuff and you can't help laughing, even though you know you shouldn't.

Fast forward to 2009, and we find that he's inspired an entire generation of insipid, soulless clones with the ethics of pond scum, the writing skills of a kindergartener, and the classiness of Bourbon Street at 2 a.m.

Slopmaster has been writing about his ridiculously awesome life for years and years. I'm somewhat ridiculous and usually try to get as close to the line of appropriateness as possible. I'm now an expat in Africa and recently lost my virginity while here, which seems ridiculous but not that ridiculous. Anyway, I'm having lots of sex now to make up for lost time. I don't tell the girls I have sex with about my blog so I write all the bloody details.

Take one nerdy virgin with zero moral scruples or good judgement, locate him on a third world continent where he is making roughly 10,000 times the average per capita income and has no qualms about sexually harassing the hired help, and you get Slopmaster.

I am in the terrible position of reviewing a person I wish would die horribly in a fire. In fact, I would only want to read this blog if it reported on the author's death, and even then, it would only interest me for about 4.6 seconds.

Don't you wish you were me?

Oh wait.

I bet you do, because then, you'd have the chance to tell this person, in front of an audience of hundreds, that he can fuck off and die. Hopefully, an ignominous, heinous, painful death.

At the minimum, Sloppy, you alcohol-besotted pendejo, my wish for you is that you experience enough soul-scorching pain that you're forced to grow the fuck up and and learn to act like a man. If this requires you losing your dick and balls in a bus accident, so much the better.

Here's your prize:



Thanks for playing.

All Animals Are Equal

...But some are more equal than others.

Politics are my crack. I admit it, without shame. The first blogs I ever read, after True Porn Clerk Stories, were political. I read Steve Graham (who used to blog at Hog On Ice, now defunct), Straight White Guy, Velociman, and Ellison, and I read the ubiquitous Acid Man, who passed away in 2006.

Steve Graham was actually the person who inspired me to begin blogging, and when he linked to my first post, ever, put me on the personal blogging map. I still have a not-entirely-platonic level of affection towards him, and the thought of him makes me warm in my furry parts.

These were/are all ostensibly political blogs, but they were also deeply personal blogs. Steve blogged about his inability to find a worthwhile woman, and the woman who screwed him over financially during law school, and smoking the world's most perfect piece of pork. And, Ellison blogged about his wife, and what he'd been cooking/eating/listening to recently, and his kids. Rob, the notorious Acid Man, well, he was a fucking train wreck that never ended, in addition to his political blogging. You never knew what Acid Man would be up to, and every day when I clicked in, I halfway expected that he'd have taken his ex-wife hostage with a sawed off shotgun below her chin.

Those were the wild, irreverent heydays of political blogging. You never knew who was going to get fired while working as a political intern and lifting her skirt for political bigwigs, though you could guess. You never knew who was going to get sued by someone they blogged about, though you could guess. You never knew who would die young, though you could guess. You never knew who would make it big, though you could guess.

It was wild, wooly, and a blast.

Political blogs these days are nothing too exciting anymore, particularly in comparison to those days. I still read Andrew Sullivan, of course, and I love him, especially for his ground-breaking coverage of the green revolution in Iran, but most political blogs have become decidedly mainstream, and in doing so, lost what made them fun to read in the first place, and that wasn't the politics, for hell's sake.

This blog, in particular, started off on such a promising note.

I was fired last August after over 17 years at the Transcript. Downsized, as the saying goes. Was I bitter? No, not right away. Now am I bitter? Yes. Add pissed off, panicky, directionless and you get an idea of my mental state. At first I was just relieved, because I thought I had some options work-wise. Now I kind of miss my old job, if not all the people.

(This first post is gonna suck, I can feel it, you can feel it, we all can feel it. It will get better, I promise.)

Now I am down to five stinking unemployment checks left. Five. I owe more money, to credit card companies, etc., than most Third World nations. Some of them, let's face it, are not going to get paid any time soon. And I say this to most of them: too fucking bad.

...Eventually, this blog will be a veritable cornucopia of pop culture insight, political wisdom and overall gems of greatness. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. One never know, do one? But as it stands now, I wake up every day bemoaning my situation, awash in a sea of self-pity, with the clock ticking down on my unemployment checks. Tick, tick, tick...

This is a freaking great post, a promising start. I can see why he was fired, as a copy editor, but the voice is real, and there is some train wreck here that engages me.

It stays bitter, too, and this bitter is a good thing when it renders up tasty morsels like this:

The rest of the paper includes the requisite celebrity worship and mindless designer brand name consumerism. On the cover is a picture of Eva Longoria. Why is this overexposed, talentless bimbo newsworthy today? Well, because she was seen kissing another overexposed celebrity at some L.A. club. That's what passes for news these days at metro. God help us.

Or this:

That's two strikes against Air America in my book, getting rid of Marc Maron and now, at least temporarily, no more Mike Malloy raving against Bush & Company. That's substantial fucking with stuff I grew to like. It's kind of like when Au Bon Pan discontinued their chicken pot pies and, ultimately, their spinach and cheese croissant, but obviously on a deeper, more gut-wrenching level. You don't miss your water till your well runs dry. I think Shakespeare said that. Or maybe Hank Williams.

I liked this blog in 2006. However, by early 2007, the Warden starts getting on my last good nerve by doing nothing more than synthesizing news articles and regurgitating them. He also begins to play with his fonts in unattractive ways, so a blog post starts out in a nice normal 11 pt arial type, and then morphs into 10 pt Times New Roman, and then segways into 14 pt blue Arial Bold, and then changes back into 11 pt Arial. Din't yer mama teach you not to play with your fonts, particularly in PUBLIC?

WTF?

Knock that shit off, you typeographical tool. It's fucking annoying.

And, your blog design is crap. From the over-populated sidebar to occasionally posting in centered or left-sided text, to whateverthefuck you have going on with your undersized header bar and the intelligible type below it, this shit needs work. I'd like to encourage you to trash this design, permanently, and go with something standard. If you don't want one of the generic blogger designs, how about something simple like this? Just try not to fuck it up with a bunch of pictures in your sidebar that are meaningless to everyone but you.

So, Warden, what are the fucking odds that you could locate the soul that your writing once had? If you did, I would consider reading it. As it is now, though, it isn't anything that isn't being done more professionally and better by the Huffington Post, the Pajamas Media people, or others.

It's the soul that sets these things apart. You had it in 2006, and somewhere, you lost it. And, that's a shame. Maybe it's impossible to blog for 3 years without losing your way. Your blog makes that case, loud and clear.

All I know is that you didn't suck, but now you do, and you've sucked long and hard for years now. Can that level of suck be fixed? I don't know, and frankly, you've given me no reason to care.

Don't bother with the new tricks, just shoot him

I had two choices yesterday evening, sit and watch more Michael Jackson breaking news, or write up this review of a 'Gringo in paradise'.

(Is that one choice, or two?)

Anyway, I went with the gringo, because he has more life in him. Barely.

Gringo doesn't put himself forward very well, he describes himself as 'an average 50 something who has retired early'. If you haven't slid off your chair in excitement, let me add that the blog is visually terrible.

I think Blogger are having a chuckle amongst themselves by offering it as a template, but seriously gringo, do YOU like the too-much-fibre shade of brown your efforts are decked out in?

You live a life of leisure on a Mexican island, why not brighten it up a little?

Onwards and er...upwards. You bored the hell out of me. Really. I went back as far as March and had to stop because from a starting point of just being bored and feeling a little sympathetic towards you, you ended up making me bored and irritated.

You are fixated on the act of blogging (and bloggers), and not any art that may accompany it. You meticulously churn out posts without putting an ounce of effort into crafting them.

You nearly made me cry when I saw you write this:
'Normally I spend Sunday afternoons putting together my five posts for the week. All neat and tidy, ready to go at 6:05 AM every morning.'

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. If you spent that afternoon writing one post with a bit of heart or spirit instead, it would be time much better spent.

Whether you live in Rome, or New Jersey, or Tbilisi, or Mexico, it will never make interesting reading to dedicate a post to how you got some cheap limes.

You wrote the only account of civil disturbance in existence that is FDA approved for treatment of insomnia. Bullet holes do not equate to bullet points.

I lost all hope when I spotted a glaring contradiction when you moan about kids not wearing shirts in town, or 'gasp' a woman's bra strap showing, yet you have no problem in perving on the topless beach and posting individual's pictures on the internet.

Dirty old man. Dirty boring old man.

How Twitter Killed the Blogosphere

I have the ennui today. And you are not helping, Blue Lanugo. I come back from vacation with my kids and my first task, this bright and sparkly Monday morning, is to review you.

What can you say to review a guy who posts screenshots of his twits on his blog?

Perhaps you could choose what you are going to be? A blogger? Or a twitterer.

Frankly, I don't think you can do both. Most of us have only so much creativity in any given day, and clearly, you're spilling all of yours on twitter.

These are things I hate to see on a blog:

• Videolinks/youtubes - unless they are quite rare and special


• Posts of photos with no caption or explanation


• References to twitter stardom and/or wittage and/or comments

Fuck this noise. Your blog is crap. And the worst part is...you're a talented writer. You could have a great blog, I suspect, if you threw yourself into it.

But you don't. So, just do us all a favor and kill it quickly, instead of slowly suffocating it beneath the weight of two years of mediocrity.

Blogger Without a Clue

Today's review: Rebel Without a Clue

Of the ten posts on the front of this blog, 7 involved reviews of American Idol.

I don't watch American Idol. I think appropriately scathing thoughts of people who do.

Time is a gift. You have approximately 168 hours in a week to accomplish something. You'll spend about 56 of those sleeping. They're gone, forever. You'll spend another 40 either attending school or working. That leaves 72 hours for you to dream, cook, read, drink wine, hang out with friends, study, learn something, look out your window, daydream some more, write on your blog. You're wasting 4 hours or so on American Idol. In essence, you're watching other people accomplish something, in lieu of doing something yourself.

Watching other people's lives on the telly is not a substitute for building a life of your own. It doesn't count. It's entirely wasted time. If that's ALL you have in your life to write about, I can only presume that you waste a hideous amount of time watching shows where you learn nothing, and where the impact on your higher brain function is to hulu it into pudding.

If this is what you're using your little corner of the internet to do, get a fucking facebook, and give the blogosphere a rest.

I'm going on vacation tomorrow.

Let this be a lesson to you, Rebel. Get off the fucking computer, turn off your television, and start living. Then, maybe, you'll have something to blog about.

Now, .

The Wise Well-Constructed Disguise

Once again, I will call upon the mighty powers of Tom DeLonge to describe a blogger. And in this case, as almost always, Tom's assessment is fully accurate:

Mia tries too hard.

For starters, the layout is hideous. I mean HIDEOUS. It's a pyzam layout, and as a consequence, is based upon the standard myspace format, which means that the content is poorly spaced, too narrow to be easily read, and the colors are a horror show. Gray text on black background? Yellow lines around everything? Blue links? Entirely too much space is absorbed by the disconcerting and messy background graphics. This is kiddy stuff, Mia. What in the fuck are you thinking?

I mean, at a minimum, no one can read it.

On a blog, the focus is supposed to be ON THE WRITING. This design does nothing but distract from your writing. It makes you look like an unprofessional nitwit. You're a girl who brags about how much care you take of the details, and yet, this is your public image? I get that you work in the sex industry, but that DOESN'T mean that your blog needs to look like a tawdry myspace whore's home brothel.

Look at the difference between your monstrous template and something like this. In the second example, the emphasis is on the WRITING. The spacing in each of the columns allows the words to stand out from the background and look neat/clean. Each new post is clearly delineated, and the buttons above the header image allow for easy navigation.

Plus, it's so much less obvious. c'mon, Mia, a zipper??? Does everything have to be "out there" for you? Flowers, with their delicate petals and secret inner depths, are inherently sexy. Not everything has to be so fucking obvious.

And, that leads me to the content.

Mia: Write in full sentences. YOU ARE NOT BRIDGET JONES. This writing stratagem that you rely upon is tired and hack.

Consider this paragraph (though literally, I could have used any since you write like this throughout the blog):

Am nearly finished with current manuscript. Characters have taken over and extended the ending. Hopefully, will complete today and tidy up prior to submissions as it has already been requested as part of new anthology featuring retold fairy tales. Mine. Ali Baba. Cast of characters alone could have made it an epic.

Blogging isn't fucking shorthand. The paragraph should read as below:

I am nearly finished with my current manuscript. The characters have taken over and extended the ending. Hopefully, I will complete it today and tidy it up prior to submissions as it has already been requested as part of new anthology featuring retold fairy tales. [wtf does this refer to?]Mine. Ali Baba.[/wtf] The cast of characters alone could have made it an epic.

This ongoing lack of a subject in every single sentence is fucking annoying. Stop it.

Beyond that, the content is practically non-existent. It might count as content if instead of being a diary-like chronicalling of each day's events, your posts elaborated on ONE event per day.

For instance, the gas station story. Your extranenous commentary gives us nothing. Instead, why not simply recount the events, as they happened, with attention to the dialogue?

You know who are the masters of this? Rassles, Erin, and Ryan.

Consider this versus this. See how your constant, interjected "look at me, look at me, see me here, telling the story???!!!" distracts from the story?

Work on that. We get that you're a writer, but get the fuck out of the way.

If you want to talk about the fairy tale anthology, why not write about the process of writing? Consider elaborating on how the characters took control of the story. In fact, use their voices in your post to explain what happened. Not only would that be a fascinating insight into the world of professional writing, but it might help you sell some books by provoking our interest.

Other than your chronic need to interject yourself into the middle of every single thing you write, my biggest objection to your blog is that it simply tries too fucking hard to titillate. With post titles like "Do You Like to Watch" and "Anal Ease," it's just too fucking much.

We get that you are Mia Watts, urban seductress and uber sexy author of fetish novels. But c'mon, man. Give us a fucking break.

If we wanted to read all of that, all the time, we'd buy the fucking books. Your blog is supposed to show the woman BEHIND the kitsch. Are you actually a real woman back there, or are you just a super slut whose panties are nearly constantly down?

I have nothing against honest sluts. I happen to be one. I like reading them. But, I get the sense that Mia the Super-Slutty is a mask that you put on for work. Is there anything behind the mask? If so, I might be interested in reading. If not, I'll pass.

Mia: you could learn a lot from Tom DeLonge:

I couldn't believe what this lady was saying
The names she was dropping, the games she was playing
She dated this guy who now rides for Black Flys
How she's down with the 'wise well-constructed disguise'
Now I'd rather go dateless than stay here and hate this
Her volume of makeup
her fake tits were tasteless
So, I said I'd call her but never would bother
...

So when you see her standing there
With green eyes and long blonde hair
She won't be wearing underwear and you'll discover
This girl's not the one and she'll never be fun
You should just turn and run because you'll find out that
Some girls try too hard.

Here's my advice: Stop posturing. Stop trying so fucking hard. Get out of your own damn way.

Be real.

That's all we really want from you: realness.

One thing I've learned in my 40s: Sexy doesn't work this hard. In fact, the harder you try to be sexy, less sexy you are. Sexy isn't something you wear, or a calculated game you play, it's something YOU ARE.

Sexy should look effortless. Any man will tell you that his girlfriend's freshly mussed hair and sweaty natural nakedness looks far better to him than the elaborately posed pretense of playboy. When sexy looks this hard, it makes us tired. After spending an hour or so on your blog, I'm sick of you. I don't want to hear about your panties. I don't want to envision you naked. I don't want to think about your (apparently) frequently traveled ass. I don't even want any cock.

Your blog has murdered my sex drive.

The next time you write a post, make a conscious effort to be real, and to stop trying so damn hard. Ask yourself why you're writing what you're writing. Find your fucking soul, and show it to us. That would be a hellalot sexier than all of these glimpses of your undergarments.

For your superficial, subjectless content, I give you this:


For your hideous layout, I give you these:


For making sexy unsexy, I give you this:


Just put some fucking panties on, and stop showing me your snatch.

Well, I don't know any lepers, but I'm not going to run out and join one of their fucking clubs.

A guest review from the lovely Betsy Booms.

A blonde walks into a bar with a poodle under one arm, and a two-foot salami under the other. The bartender says, “I guess you won't be needing a drink”. Naked lady says...

I'm not going to lie, I struggled with reviewing today's blog. Do I judge her or her blog? Isn't someone's blog just a reflection of who they are? What is the line? The truth about Candice is that at first glance it seems like we would get along. She's sarcastic, blunt and we both just might say something like neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie and think we're awesomely cool, because look at that, we just quoted a movie! We are fucking clever, dude. For reals.

And maybe we would. Maybe we'd meet at some neighborhood block party or possibly at some kid's birthday party, we'd be annoyed that we had to be there, we'd hit the booze a little too hard, which would be so fucking funny, right, and we'd probably spend the entire time people watching and making fun of everyone around us. Because, seriously? Those sunglasses are so two year's ago. What. The. Hell?

The difference though? Candice truly judges you, oh yes, she does. If you don't fit neatly into her world, you are a fucking turd. It's as clear as the nose on her giant face in her header, she loves herself.

Can Candice write? Yes she can. She held my attention and I read every single word she wrote. Even when I wanted to hock a loogie in her ice cream laden mudslide. I predict that she may even rise through the trenches of super popular mommy bloggers and have a following of fellow, superficial, look at me, I can be hip, fo' shizzle husband haters that will think she is just the tits. Although, she could do with some serious editing, her rants are generally about twice as long as they need to be to get her point across.

And what is her point? Well, she is a fucking riot, peeps. I'm also thinking it's that she's a spoiled twat. A twat that relegated being a Democrat to being a Jesus freak, skin head, ax muderer or my personal favorite, a child molester. But OMG, did you see that freak's shoes? To die for!

Read Candice's blog for any period of time and it will become painfully apparent how she feels about people who are overweight. She especially hates those fatties with the scooters in the snack aisle, who doesn't? I called her a husband hater, but do I really think that she hates her husband? No, but being mean and disrespectful to him when he is on a conference call is hifuckinglarious, isn't it Candy? I suspect her husband funds a lot of the shopping trips that provide all the outfits that she spends entire blog posts writing about as she plans for a trip to hang with "her girls" who, I have no doubt, are really deep and so Sex in the City!!! (Must have multiple exclaims!!!) However, her husband is also the same man that produces brilliant little gems like yelling at our newly elected President, "I don't need to watch a retard lie to me."

We get to read all about her manicures and pedicures complete with phonetic spellings that let us know that her nail girl doesn't speak the clearest English.

See, here is the thing about people like Candice that I can't stand. She sneaks it all in there. You have to read between the lines to be smacked in the face with her bigotry, judgment and hate. She flings intelligent words like turd and retard at you all day long, while she cleverly hides her hate for anything different like fat people, Asians and female television repair people.

It's okay though, because she doesn't really say, "Hey fatso, I don't want to sit next you and your freaking fatness on this plane, you fucking Asian Democrat." She's too cute for that. Plus! She peppers it all with clever little parodies of American Idol as well. A hater wouldn't do that!!!

Candice has just about mastered the formula for successful mama blogger. She has an unexplainable celebrity crush that she tosses around to let you know she still needs the sex in her life. She has mastered super hip vocabulary for all you biotches out there.

She's pretty much the valedictorian of her class at the School for Snarky Mama Bloggers, yo. Unfortunately, this is one case where I prefer the posts where she writes about her kids because her kids are funny. Boo-Yah!

Look, whatever the case, you can probably hang with Candice as long as you admit that her television is bigger than yours, her hair is blonder and costs more, oh and her shoes are the freaking bomb, yo!

I don't hate her writing. I strongly dislike her.

For her written ability to keep me reading and entertained I give her:



For her carefully worded, conservative, hating bullshit and linking to humor-blogs dot com:



I'm pretty sure that those fingers are actually flaming Liberals, so she is completely twitching at this point.

Just know, Candice, I've deleted at least a hundred blogs just like yours from my Reader. Someday you are going to have to find a new schtick. A schtick other than being cute, sassy, snarky and spilling your martini as you totter around in your fabulous shoes.

Evidence of what I always suspected

Stay-at-home mommybloggers are the bane of my reviewing existence.

I'm admittedly biased, but I envision the vast majority of these chicks sitting at home on their ever-expanding asses, watching way too much daytime television, ignoring their offspring, and amusing themselves online while their toddler attempts to french kiss the power outlet.

This blog bolsters all of my worst beliefs about full-time mommybloggerdom.

There are no adventures here. Instead, this blog catalogs how this mommy slacker lollygags about on the internet all day, working on blog designs and new photoshopped nonsense and giving away her hubby's hard-earned cash in the form of gift certificates in order to lure in other unsuspecting housewives into reading and sharing her drivel.

Here's the evidence right here:

Personally, I'm glad to have him out of here. Last week I overheard him tell the guy that works the evening shift what we do (blog, eat, t.v) and don't do(cook and clean) all day. Stool Pigeon!

As a working mom, if I found out that my spouse had been pulling this nonsense all day long while ostensibly caring for our children, I'd fire his/her ass pronto from the sweet SAHP gig, and tell him/her to get a job. And, with good cause.

This blog is crap. It's what happens when brainless morons collide with photoshop and too much free time.

Do you really think you'll look back on this time in your life and be glad that you sat on your ass in front of the computer/television, creating this mindless nonsense, instead of playing with your little ones?

There is nothing soulful, sweet, touching, interesting, or worthy of being put online on this blog. It's all cartoon colors and big fonts, and no substance. I tried to find one single stimulating, entertaining, and thoughtful post, and failed, utterly.

This blog is the Fruity Pebbles of the blogosphere, all Red No. 3, artificial flavorings, processed white flour, high sucrose corn syrup, and way too little fiber and protein. It will make your brain rot. As a mom, I advise you to stay clear of it. And, for that matter, actual Fruity Pebbles.

In all fairness, there are a few mommybloggers I don't hate. You mostly know who you are, but mad props to the drunken housewife. She remains my all-time favorite stay-at-home mommy, a woman who has refused to allow her brain to be gelatinized by the bloggy klatsche into tasteless pablum. Look to her as a role model, you silly bitches who keep submitting here in the misguided belief that we will fucking love you.

Now, .

Turn off the computer, go outside, play with your little boys, and do your fucking J-O-B. Read a book. Read one with no swooning virgins on the cover, even. Better yet, read some to your kids. Join a service club. Volunteer. There is more to being a parent than blogging about the fact that you are having a multi-year work vacation. Get a fucking grip, you twit.

Honestly, Just Fucking Knock It Off

You Forgot Your Brain finds me insomnia-addled and choking on the deep-fried chicken-bones of jealousy this morning, utterly envious of anyone who's been zapped with a full-frontal lobotomy or any kind massive, mind-altering head-trauma, because I’m almost certain that I wouldn’t have to review this rectal-spray of a blog were I clinically brain-damaged. Upon further perusal, however, perhaps the mentally-enfeebled is actually SVC’s intended audience, judging by the insane-asylum-gray background and grammatical snafus that bring to mind an orangutan bashing the keyboard with his elbows. Either way, I’m fucked coming and going, and this review is inescapable.

It’s not just that he’s annoying, it’s that he’s aggressively annoying; it’s like reading the musings of a four-year-old who got his head caught in a motorboat propeller, or the screaming idiocy of a howler-monkey with a paper-cut. There is absolutely no discernible difference at all between his first post and his last, and considering he’s been at this since 2005, I think it’s time to give in to nature and let irresistible contemptibility and overwhelming disinterest kill this blog dead.

I managed to cull some (sic) sentences from this atrocity before I ran outside in a hysterical rage looking for a small creature to strangle with my bare hands, so, please, judge for yourselves:

As Roger Ebert:

Some uncommon observations about [Ferris Bueller’s Day Off]: Sloan could have been hotter. When casting a lead hot girlfriend, she should be smokin hot, someone to drool over. Her voice is great, I have dreams about her voice, but we could have dialed up the looks on her a little bit. I mean, it is a hollywood movie, lets go people. A 7 on the scale of 1-10 doesn't cut it. Jennifer Grey, ferris' sister was hotter. Wow, hows that for a scary thought?

As a misogynist:

I love the term skank. I find that if one woman really hates another woman, that is the best term they use. Famous cases of skanks include Jennifer Love Hewitt, Tara Reid, Lynnsey Lohan, and Christine Aguilara. Men generally have no opinion about these girls, but mention those names around other females in an appreciative way and you will undoubtidly get a quick lip curl snarl. That being said, the local banks around here have quite a reputation for hiring skanks as bank tellers. You can tell they had a hard night of indirect prostitution so they are not exactly perky at 9AM. They're staring at the clock waiting for their next cancer stick break and a cell phone call to the 30 yr old guy they slobbered over to talk about a trip to planned parenthood on the lunch break.

As a jock:

For all the sports fans out there. Can we get a petition togethor for Fox to put rat poisen in Joe Buck's coffee? I would say the petition should be for his resignation, but he would just find work on some other network to annoy the crap out of everyone. I am so sick of his self-righteous crap. He never played sports and he needs to keep his opinions concerning player and manager behaviour to himself. I know his dad was an announcer too, but he didn't suck. Anyway, I hate games called by him and if I ever see him, he can expect to be tackled and made to chain smoke until we have to remove his larynx.

A couple of quick hits:

I stash things I might need everywhere, I am chronic prepare in case of emergency type guy and then forget that I put it there.

Why not just go see the real band or, if they are a broken up band; preserve the memories correctly through the tapes?

I have all the sick days I need, dress as I choose, can be as late as I want, and take off when I want. Not that I do because you feel responsible, but it's nice to know it is there.

Haphazard, inane, quasi-imbecilic claptrap thrown at the screen with indifference - it’s just wall-to-wall, irredeemable garbage that makes the dumpster behind a third-rate Thai-food restaurant look like a debutante’s ball; if horseshit was teeth, this guy would have the biggest smile in the universe.

Seriously, dude: fuck off, and don't come back.