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:

Instead of a blog review I got a wicked bad sunburn.

There was this plan, you see, to write a blog review for today. And then I started watching Band of Brothers again and then there was Labor Day and I went out on a boat and got drunk and burned, so now I am very pink and very tired and salty and in no shape to pretend I'm interested in reading anyone's blogs.

So, with all the recent hilarity, COMMENT OF THE WEEK(ish):

I peed myself laughing. And that is not hyperbole, I actually peed myself.
- Miss Missives on The Chewbacca Defense


That is a picture of you, right? It's not some wrestler or Aryan Brotherhood member or something whose picture you lifted so as to make yourself look bad ass?
- Lil on Jidhu What Jighotta Do


Dude, if gay marriage is ok then I am totally marrying my cat.
- Formerly Fun on What would people think when they hear that I'm a Jesus Freak?


You know his cat-penis is spiny and hurtful, right? Fucking cat-penises and their cat-penissy-catness.
- Rassles, who is one sick fuck, on What would people think when they hear that I'm a Jesus Freak?


I hope people have good vacations even when they've just, moments before, caused me to have a spontaneous and severe headache by discussing cat dick. Does that mean I'm gay?
- Mongolian Girl on What would people think when they hear that I'm a Jesus Freak?


I'm putting part of one of my own comments up for the Quote of the Week thingy.
Praise! "You should probably know I will retract my praise if it's really true that you do not approve of dicks in butt holes." Self-promotion! Praise!
- Mongolian Girl on What would people think when they hear that I'm a Jesus Freak?


When my husband slaps me on my right bum cheek, I do in fact, offer him the other.
- Formerly Fun on What would people think when they hear that I'm a Jesus Freak?


Aaaaaaaah! You commenters are so cute with your matching shirts and learning disabilities.
- Scorpio Woperchild on That's why her hair is so big: it's full of secrets

Any more suggestions?

- Shiner

Your Blog Is Giving Me Shingles. Itchy, Sexy Ones.

A review from Rassles. Once more. With feeling.



Dartboard? Okay. Come on, Rass. You can do this.

YOU ANNOY THE FUCKING FUCK OUT OF ME. YOU ARE OBNOXIOUS. IT CAUSES ME BOTH CORPOREAL AND ETHEREAL PAIN TO READ SOME OF YOUR SENTENCES BECAUSE I WANT TO REFRAGMENT THE FUCKING LOT OF THEM.

Also, apparently I am a sado-masochist.

I am fucking irked to the point of shingles. But then, I'm coyly flirting with my computer screen, oggling these sophomoric sketches (which lead into each blog entry with the finesse of a hobbled Tibetan ox), blushing, casting sidelong glances. I'm doing that thing that I do that pisses me off, where I arch my back and half-smile and pull my shirtsleeves over my knuckles. I must be getting my fucking period.

He’s like the friend you don’t want to introduce to people. You’ll hang out with him, sure, and when you share stories about his verbal rampages you call him “this guy I know" but never "a friend of mine." Because you will tell stories about him, because he's entertaining as hell. Just annoyingly so.

Then one day you and a real friend run into him at a bar. You exchange unpleasantries and separate thoroughly agitated. Your friend innocently asks, "how do you know that guy?" and you arch your back, half smile, roll your eyes, shake your head with annoyance and state, "He’s just this guy" or "we were in a band together."

Why don't you want to admit your friendship? Well, he rants about marketing shit and customer service reviews that you really don’t care about. And then he rants about marketing shit and customer service reviews that you don’t really care about. And then? He rants about marketing shit and customer service reviews that you don’t really care about. Has he ever worked customer service, or is he just a dick?

Tonally, he traverses between unnecessary arrogance and berating himself with the proper dash of pomposity. He needs to work on comedic meter, but really, I mean, who doesn’t?

He claims to have destructive apathy, which I would be more inclined to believe were he a careless loafer laced with a thin string of nihilism, but he’s more mean-tempered than that. More callous. And also, more sensitive, which makes the whole situation soooooo much more irritating.

See, you don't want to admit it, but you want to shamefuck him. Like Shia LaBeouf shamefuckin. I can’t believe I’m typing this right now. But you know what I mean: an annoying shit of a dude that is irritating and unattractive and charming and you’re embarrassed because you want to shamefuck him really, really hard.

Back at the bar, after silently imagining (for about half an hour) exactly how that shamefuck will unfold, you explain to your friend that you can’t focus on your conversation because that guy from earlier? You want to shamefuck him. And he laughs and tells you that he feels that way about his friend's mom. And then you buy him a shot and make him swear to secrecy with pinkies and blood, but you still don't tell him about Shia LaBeouf. That one goes to the fucking grave.

Yeah.

Dartboard, you're still annoying. Go fuck yourself. I don't want to give you any stars, but I’m going to, because you're funny enough and good enough of a writer. But seriously, go fuck yourself.

How about this: I want you to go fuck yourself, and then I want you to call me and tell me exactly what you were thinking about while fucking yourself. Okay? Fine.

Son of a bitch.

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.

So when you see her standing there...she won't be wearing underwear

So this dude comes up to you in a bar. The first thing you notice is that he's wearing a stupid hat, and has his fingernails painted black, and then you realize that it looks like he had his hair done by the same people that used to style Cyndi Lauper.

And you think, "What the hell is he wearing? What heterosexual man would ever be caught dead wearing a purple velvet blazer and ankle boots? Please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me."

Your attempt to redirect him with mind powers fails. Like a mosquito, he unerringly hones in on you, coming right up into your business and invading your personal space with his buzz.

And that seems bad enough, but then he opens his mouth.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Your doelike eyes stare into his headlights, stunned by the fact that this tool has singled you out as if you have "pick me, douche" scrawled on your forehead.

"Ummm, come again?"

"Are you okay?" he asks again, more slowly this time.

"Sure," you say, turning away, slightly, to offer him your teflon-coated shoulder of doom.

"I just wondered," he says, breathing from his mouth, "because that must have been a long fall from heaven." He chokes on his own laughter.

You smile unsmilingly, and turn fully away from him, stifling his enthusiasm with indifference. He waits a while, then says, "Hey." You ignore him. "Hey," he repeats, a bit more loudly. You wish for him to leave.

"Fucken bitch," he mutters under his breath as he turns and splooges away, back to his corner.

Problems with this blog:
1) Hideous template
2) Ten million ads.
3) Humor that stopped being humorous when I was about 15.
4) FUCKING TRIES TOO HARD AND FAILS MISERABLY.

In short, I offer you the following site description, from the author himself:

WARNING:
This blog may or may not contain adult themes and may or may not be suitable for small children or nuns. Scary evil people and axe murderers will find this blog enjoyable.
If your are a small kid and you've somehow come across this site then make sure you tell all your friends about it, it will make you popular and rich!

We Don't get paid so make sure you leave a comment, subscribe, Stumble, Digg and all that other stuff. Fame and possible future profits are our award!
If you forget you might die, seriously its happened before, maybe.

Did I mention its a humor blog?

If you have to tell people that it's a humor blog, it isn't. Please stop polluting the blogo-sphere with your yak shit. This is one blog that should have been killed in utero before it was ever birthed in puke and sweat onto the interwebs.

The Mayor of Simpleton

Miss Missives would fashion a guess that most of us have an aunt who is always sending this sort of thing via email. I would bet it's pretty safe to say that nearly all of us have worked somewhere with the crazy cat lady that posts these frequently. How about the uncle that is replete with forwards of the scatological variety, with an occasional smattering of jug jokes and other novelties. Now throw in that odd girl you went to high school with but never really talked to who found you on Facebook and now regularly forwards you this kind of stuff so you know which board game she is. Now imagine all of these people, coming together to form the single, greatest collection of email forwards ever, in one place, for your enjoyment.

Oh my, oops is right Amy because this has to be an accident. I dove deep into the archives on this one dear readers hoping that Amy started this blog in earnest but perhaps became overwhelmed with the skill and time required to actually write so started posting this blather. Sadly, this one was a bad seed from the start.

Usually a good thing when it comes to blogging, Amy posts frequently, in April alone she posted 218 entries, an average of seven per day. Granted, she's mostly uploading but still, who really has time to do all this? Likewise, how much time does she spend actually searching for it all? Above her profile is written “Meet the Author.” Author? Really? Amy, that's a bit of a stretch isn't it dear? I don't think reposting Lolcats makes one an author.

What is it about people selling insurance that robs them of a genuine sense of what constitutes funny? Is it perhaps because when your in a room full of other insurance people, you get a big head because you are “the funny one” of the group? Maybe you are but that's like being the smartest kid in special ed, your still in special ed right? Clearly, with regard to blogging, the new rule is, if 'funny' is found anywhere in the title or description, it's not going to be funny.

I'm not even going to get into the perversity of ads all over the site. Amy, there are far more honest and respectable ways to earn a living dear. For instance, you could become a telemarketer, start your own pyramid scheme, bilk old ladies out of their pensions or learn to shoot ping pong balls out of your lady business.

Now I bet you're going to say, Miss Missives where's the artfully delivered constructive criticism you are known and loved for? Let's be honest with each other Amy, you didn't really come here to be reviewed because 99% of your material belongs to someone else. What you want is traffic, more click throughs, a few more votes for best comedy blogger, and to sell some t-shirts at cafepress.

Amy, you post things that most of us summarily delete from our inbox, the only thing that makes this a blog is that you have a template, a rather ugly one at that. This is a repository for lame forwards. It feels like is an old lady's drawer of 'humor' clippings from Reader's digest and McCall's. No one cares what board game you are, or what breakfast cereal you are, or even what utensil you are .

This site is soulless and the furthest thing from funny.

One for sorrow

Do you know what a magpie is? Of course you do.

Do you know what a magpie does? Perhaps, but let me fill you in.

They are birds who line their nests with anything shiny or reflective they come to lay their beady eyes on.

Basically, they spy things of value to others, take them, and parade them as their own.

Welcome to the world of Los Cuatro Ojos. A magpie in blog form that posts pictures from around the internet every day.

A decent template, and a catchy title, which is all clever and bilingual and shit so it can leave both Patrick and Paco feeling like they've wasted their time.
It's really quite inclusive in it's monstrosity, I dozed off before I finished the not so hilarious tagline.

This kind of blogging has a place, I'm sure. Just not in my fucking reader.

I've never seen such a misguided waste of technology, web space, and obvious human effort as appears here. The fact effort was taken at all in the name of this cretinous creation is staggering.

I actually plead with you to explain to me what the fucking point of it all is?

Do you rush home daily, casting all other obligations aside, in order to post the same picture that will have been posted on four million other sites?

Do you have a thought of your own in that head of yours? There are mysterious 'essays' hidden away in links never to be explored.

Some of the pictures are funny, yes, but they were also funny on all of the other half billion sites I saw them on today.

This sepsis inducing collection of worthless, hacked to death humour is a dreadful reflection upon your own personality. Try as I might, having seen what you pass off here as a blog, I can only see your image as being rightfully tainted to the world at large.

I can't imagine you ever shaking with true laughter, just sweaty masturbatory residual fat rolling. I can never picture you picking up and returning an old man's 10 cent coin without knowing that you are concealing his quarter under your scabby hoof. I can't imagine you bringing anything of worth to humanity other than this shining example of all that is
wrong with mankind.

I can't imagine you imagining.

Soulless, worthless, and senseless uselessness which just drains my energy.

My life is worse off for having even fucking bothered.

Skinny Bitches Piss Me Off

This morning, our thermometer measured the outside air at a frosty 38F. For Florida, this is not just cold, it is FUCKING cold. I smiled, eased out of bed, and was mildly ecstatic. It's time for my favorite, favorite footwear, bitches: I pulled on my smooth, supple black leather boots from Ann Taylor. Add a turtleneck sweater and a charcoal gray skirt, and I was ready for an ass-reaming.

Unfortunately, in spite of my best intentions, I couldn't. I like the writing on this blog, way too much. I started reading last night, after I incarcerated my children put the kids to bed, and then I woke my daughter up by cackling like a mad hyena in my bedroom while reading one of her posts.

So, instead, I'm going to be a kinder, gentler Love Bites.

Dear Foodie:

Recently, I had a chance to dine in your little place. I like to think of myself as some sort of jaded connoisseur of blogs, who feasts on other people's suffering and angst. But, you made me laugh. And, this post made me literally holler like a crazy ass hillbilly and snort sprite out of my nostrils. I can forgive the ugliest blog template if you can accomplish that (hey, Key, baby. Thinking about you here).

Don't change what you're serving up, not even one little bit. I want to keep reading about cougars with fetishes for pregnant chicks and three-somes. I want to know about your trips to Tarzhay in hot pants. That's the stuff that will keep me coming back to your all you can laugh buffet time and again.

But seriously, girlfriend, you have GOT to do something about the decor. That header image? Hideous, and it takes for-fucking-ever to load. Would you REALLY wear that shoe? If so, you need to have a spatula taken to your fashion-impaired ass post-haste.

And all this shit you got going on, blogger ads and blogrolls and foodie ads, and other assorted filler that makes your blog ooze onto my screen slower than Heinz catsup onto my fries? Yeah. Gotta go.

Create some stand-alone pages for this shit. One for your awards, one for your blogroll, and please get that Twitter shit the fuck off of your sidebar. Then, list these neatly as links in your sidebar. One link, per page.

Let me point out that every single time you add something like that to your blog, another gizmo or gadget or tracking device, it slows down your page loads, and it also distracts readers away from your (really very good) content. Strip it down, bare it up, and put those things neatly away, like the undergarments you apparently prefer not to wear under your clothes. Put them in a drawer, away from polite society. Let people who WANT to see them see them do their pawing through your panty drawer on their own time, and let those of us who want to savor and masticate your tender morsels on your page do so without distractions.

Also, that picture in your profile? Not attractive. Use this one, instead. Not everyone can be a blond, and that's okay. Some people NEED to be brunettes, and you're one of them. Your blond pic doesn't do you justice.

Thanks much,

The nicest reviewer on this fucking site

p.s.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I do hate to be dressed for an ass-reaming, and fail to deliver. So, let me offer this one up, instead, since our reviewee quite clearly doesn't warrant one.

Dear person whose name shall be unnamed:

You can kiss my sweet white midwestern farm girl ass. When you have cleaned up your site, gotten rid of the most illegible font since wildstyle, and your writing has stopped looking like canine excrement, then you will have some standing to critique my "biased" reviews.

Also, Calamity is the ONLY thing standing between you and the public crucifixion I wanted to give you. You should like send her $20 or something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Also, I wanted to give props to one of our recent reviewees. MJ...the last few posts about your family have been so delicious. I hate your political posts, but those were actually worth reading.

Well, that's all. Happy Tuesday. May this day be as delightful for you as it looks to be shaping up for me.

…was blind but now I see..

I’ve been having a crisis of sorts with these reviews, what’s the use of them? What do the blog authors really wish to gain from them? Do they do more harm than good?

All that philosophical shit.

Toss in wave after wave of mediocrity in the review queue and you are left with one seriously bored but blessed boy buggerer.

Then along came this weeks ‘blog’ for review. Never before have I been so inspired and reinvigorated to spit forth bile as I was after having looking at it.

The site is ‘Quotes in can’ and I’m not going to link to it, it’s not getting the traffic off me it doesn’t deserve. Google it if you really want to put more shekels in the author’s dirty pocket.

The site is stretched and covered in jingly jangly flashing shit, with a huge header created by some 12 year old.

A (lousy attempt at a) paid posting site of some sort, the author has ingeniously copied famous quotes from elsewhere and pasted them onto their pithy corner of the internet to pad out their own few miserable lines of moaning.

That’s all folks.

The posts are about as frequent as my thrush flare ups, and less desirable.

I needed this, I needed to see this pixelated scour in order to show me how to hate again.

Bloggers, heed this, get your heads out of your arses and take a look at why you submit.

The traffic you’ll get from here isn’t spectacular, but should you try to bluff us, the anal cavity expansion you’ll receive with a verbal rusty monkey wrench will make your eyes water, your granny’s ears bleed, and your respective deity burst into flame.

Clever, witty, sexy, funny, personal, or scathing are all I want to see. Any, or all of them, or at least a genuine attempt at one, will result in constructive feedback.

I’m going to go out on a limb and credit you people with some intelligence, you know what mediocre is, keep it the fuck away from me.

This week’s ‘blog’, doesn’t deserve flaming fingers, the site is nothing more than a cuntblister.

…and you can quote me on that.

White Trash Diva

I come from a long line of poor white trash. My dad's family grew up in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, living in beat-up trailers on farms full of rocks back in the holler. I can't hear Ozark Mountain Jubilee without wanting to take a road trip home on Route 66, through those twisty red roads covered with flint and oak leaves, embellished with black-eyed susans and orange dust.

So trust me when I say that I have a high level of tolerance for rednecks. In many ways, as a girl who grew up shoveling manure and riding in rodeos, I am one, still, and it doesn't lay very far underneath my corporate persona (such as it is). Anyone who knows me in real life (Calamity, for instance), can affirm this. I'm not that ladylike, and I'd just as soon be leaping off a platform at the local spring with the teenage boys as sitting here in my office in a dress. Or, being shot at, that's always good, too.

So, I didn't expect today's blogger to get on my last damn nerve, but she did. First off, let me say that ANYONE who refers to herself as a princess, queen, or diva should have been killed at birth. Nothing good ever comes of these kinds of women, and I almost always hate them without exception. And, when you tell me in your ugly, blurry header that "all I know how to do is bitch," I want to rassle you down and rip your titties and tiara off.

That's never a good start, is it? You know an ass reaming is fixing to follow, just like Arkansas boys follow a herd of sheep, mooning after a hot date.

Item 1: The redneck corporate persona wears thin for me, darlin. I call bullshit. You're just trying too damn hard. It's too shallow, there isn't enough depth to your posts. I don't buy that the person you put on your blog is the real you. I don't get why a grown woman would feel a need to prove how much she drinks and smokes and swears, and how that person is the REAL her. Is it so you can show you haven't sold your soul to the company man? Mostly, I think you're lost, searching for an identity, and glomming on to whatever comes easiest. You aren't willing to put it out there and post anything of substance and meaning, so you rely on the tired old "you might be a redneck" bullshit. Dammit. Can I get a fucking amen on how sick I am of that particular persona?

Item 2: I hate your template. Your header image is ugly, I can't read the font, and I loathe your tagline. I hate how many goddamn graphics you have on your blog. I hate it that you have your post labels directly under your post titles, which is fucking confusing as hell. Move that shit down to the bottom of your post, like any sane person. I hate your cluttered sidebar. Clean that shit up. Follow the advice here. Look at some of our well-reviewed blogs. You can find them here.

Item 3: Unless you're posting pictures of a ram's ginormous testicals, lay the fuck off. I'm setting a strict limit of 1 picture per post for you. You aren't a 12-year-old on myspace. I'm assuming you've had a computer for a while now. Grow up.

Item 4: I hate your content. I hate the fact that you don't put your writing into actual paragraphs.

Don't ever say this about your kids again:

Another bad habit is that I love to torment the children. They are really turds and since they don’t do what they are supposed to, I feel it my duty to make them as miserable as possible.

Not to sound like a tight ass, but your children aren't turds. If they are, the blame lays squarely on your doorstep. Being a parent is a privilege. People who down-talk their families piss me off. It's low class.

Also, don't reference your darling grandpa immediately following a paragraph about pole dancing.

Stop fucking bragging about being a drunk bitch. That went out of style when you were 21. At our age (near 40), it makes you look retarded.

Listen, I'm the girl who once made out with my cousin after a funeral (his dad's). I get redneck. Do you get how despicable your content is when I'm calling you low class?

In short, in a half hour of reading, I could not find a single goddamn post of yours that didn't piss me off in some way. I wouldn't read your blog again if you paid me to serve as CFO. In short, your blog makes me want to find new and different places to punch a bitch. I've done uterus, ovaries, and kidneys to death, so maybe I'll start with your appendix and then swing a bag of quarters at your thighs.

Grow up, sweetie. Your blog lacks any goddamn semblance of class, depth, talent, or any other thing that would interest me.

I rate you:



You're not even a good train wreck.

Dysfunction gets a bad name

Oh goodie fucking gumdrops, look what we have here, Wyrllwynd of Dysfunction.

Written by two women, it claims to be:

"The insane rantings of a couple of mommy figures, pet-owned persons, and redheads".

'Inane' would be more accurate , but at least you didn't mention coffee or your Wii fit. Thank fuck for small mercies I suppose.

Girls, it looks like shit, and you know it.
If you can't see it looks like shit then you probably can't read this either, so why are any of us bothering?

An ugly header, with spastic double columns taking up nearly half the screen, and a background colour that I can only describe as the colour I imagine an aneurysm to be.

From start to finish this just irritates. Go click the contact link, go on, I fucking dare you to. Now read it and tell me I'm being unreasonable when I say that this is just annoying pig shit.

I clicked on the podcast links and my PC got hijacked by some bastard plug-in search.

I'm a reasonable enough chap, so I decided to put that visual rape and anal irritation behind me, and try and read some of this amazing dysfunction.

In fairness, the writing, where you can find it, isn't as shit as the presentation, but by the time you get to it you just can't be fucking bothered.
A couple of posts about tits and well, tits, managed to hold my interest for a few seconds but all was already lost.

You seem to be able to write, are articulate, you source and research and curse liberally. That's all good but basically I got really fucking bored and you are both off your heads if you think it looks acceptable.

You are better than this, you just can't be bothered.

You asked for suggestions how to improve it? Well fuck me sideways, don't paint it the colour of a squirrel's vomit for starters.

Don't have those two columns sprawling all over the left hand side.

Practically any out of the box template would be less offensive.

Don't blog together, you lower the bar for each other.

Burn down the blog as is, start with a blank white page and for every post you can honestly say you are proud of, you can add a link, or some vile colour, or some other fucking flashing jingly jangly thing as a reward.

Until then, I would give you a ride on the short bus, but you deserve to be made fucking walk.

For annoying me you can share this:






For writing a whiney excuse about how shit your review was going to be rather than do anything about it, you can:

Seriously Fucked Up Priorities

Today's victim boldly proclaims on her header image: "It's all about the balance and the shoes."

Wrong. Clearly, you don't get it. When it comes to blogging, it's all about the writing. Or, in this case, the lack thereof.

First off, the blog design sucks ass. For all of the ugly blogs we've reviewed, this blog, for me, takes the cake. It's impossible to navigate. It took me way too long to figure out what in the hell this site was, at first. Is it a blog? Is it a site to market children's books and diapers? Is it an internet parents' support group? You tell me. I still don't know.

The header image is pixelated and ugly.

And, three got-damn columns...almost without exception, 3 columns are overkill for any blog. They are just too damn busy and take up too much space to leave any room for content. Which, apparently is the plan.

Of course, that takes us to the real crux of the matter...the nonexistent writing. What the hell are doing here? I can't tell. There simply isn't enough substantive content, or you've made it so difficult to get to, that I have no inclination to read your blog in the future. In fact, I found visiting your blog like spending time in Haiti in a mud hut full of mosquitoes and snakes, and equating it to a glamorous beach vacation. It was a torturous hell to spend 30 minutes on this blog so I could review it.

So, let's cut to the bottom line. Why do you blog, Andria? Is it to make friends? Sell shit? Then do something else, for god's sake. The point of blogging is TO BLOG. TO BLOG. A blog is a web-based journal, which implies WRITING. And your design and the multitude of shit you have going on puts the emphasis on everything BUT writing.

So, here is my advice:

Trash it. TRASH IT ALL. Start over, anonymously, with no gadgets, no friend lists, no ads, no linky love. Start writing again. Pour out your heart. If you are dealing with mental health issues and/or depression, keeping a personal journal is one of the best things you can to do track your progress and to make a record of your feelings. And, don't make the mistake of telling people in your real life about your blog, ever again. Because of the way you've approached blogging, you've turned your blog into something painfully superficial and dull.

I want you to for submitting this to us.

A Naked Bitch Is Worth 1000 Words

Charlotte Sometimes, guest reviewer here.

First, let's start off with a warning you can all ignore in true badass fashion. The blog I reviewed today is NSFW. Which is Not Safe For Work for those of you playing along at home. Or at work, I guess. Don't view it in front of your kiddos. You will be paying for endless amounts of therapy beyond what is now required for most booger-faced rugrats being raised out there. She has positioned a large disclaimer at the top calling it mild adult content.

I personally have a different definition of mild. Her definition of mild must resemble something along the lines of telling your grandmother to go fuck herself during the Sunday morning pancake feed held in the church gym after the local preacher wraps up the weekly sermon.

With that being said, you don't know me and I don't know you. While that lends a sort of lonely freedom, it certainly doesn't give me any credibility. Trust me you'll get over that and your life will be better for it. I will tell you a co-worker told me I was hateful the other day. Being that he nailed my best quality in one shared observation, my feelings on today’s blog should be no surprise.

When I was initially asked to do a review for Ask I damn near wet myself. It was like being asked to smoke on school property by that dangerous boy that wears eyeliner and sits in the back of the class. I didn't wet myself though, I crossed my legs and managed to maintain a small shred of dignity. That little tiny shred caved in on itself and blew away in the breeze the second I laid my eyes on 1000 Words. I don't think Naked Lara, as I like to call her, has ever crossed her legs.

Ever.

After the shock wore off, I climbed out of the fetal position and got down to business. Lara apparently likes to get down to business too. Hey, you can't hate the girl for it. What I can hate her for is making me repeatedly view shot after shot of her ass that bears not a trace of a stretch mark even though she claims in her About Me that her life mostly consists of carpooling, kid duties and typical housewife 'stuff' among other things. Other things being snapping interesting angles of her holiest of holies.

I'm not a housewife but I'm pretty damn sure it must be a tight schedule with all the personal grooming and excessive shower photo shoots between loads of laundry and cleaning up graham crackers off the floor. The funny thing is Lara isn't a housewife either. She's not bored or lonely. She works nearly full-time on top of all her dirty bird antics like being naked on the stove and the mothering of offspring.

I don't know about you but I'm not eating the mac and cheese at this broad's house.

Maybe that's just me. I have been known to be delusional. My obvious bitterness aside, her template is really just her, all naked and shit. Her header is butt ugly, there is a large and very necessary disclaimer, her side bar is full of your typical stupid shit and flashy, blinky, seizure-inducing things. However, she has impeccable taste in the blogs she chooses to read. At least, according to her blogroll, she does.

Right off the bat, I was entirely confused. The very first post I read was schizophrenic, seemingly dirty and I think you had to be there to understand it. Frankly, I'm glad I wasn't there.

Moving on because I just couldn't wade through that bullshit, her next post held some sort of promise by letting us know her ass hurts. Thanks for the news flash. Naked Lara goes on to say that we're pervs for thinking the obvious.

Right.

We're the pervs.

Self-awareness is more than knowing what your tenderoni looks like. Trust me. And I do know what mine looks like.

To be entirely honest I had a really hard time reading the posts but regardless of what I just said about self-awareness, Lara does have it. There were some almost clever moments. And really she can write. She punctuates better than I do and she can string her sentences together well. She's a responsible parent as witnessed here.

Naked Lara ends each post with a hug. I cringe inside and hope that she is dressed while she's hugging me, but still, the hug is nice. I'm all for naked hugging, just not from other people's mothers.

Thinking about it that sounds like I might like naked hugs from my mother and I don't. Not even that one time.

So let's recap because I have a short attention span that not even mommy smut can keep attentive. She's naked, she's a mother, her template makes me hurl and/or punch myself in my cute little face and she's human.

So what.

My real problem with 1000 Words is that the soft core porn shots and the majority of the content don't jive. They just don't go together. That might be what she's aiming for. I felt like she's saying she's a mom but she's a sex kitten too. Or maybe she just loves her own fur-cookie, I don't know. I don't really care either. I'm not hating on the naked. I just don't like to mix my naked with my momma bloggin' if you know what I mean. Not that she is a mommy blogger. She's a mom, she blogs, whatever. For the most part I was bored and the weird mix of my stomach turning from seeing her shave her love muffin and the yawn inducing slice of life posts left me feeling disoriented. And not the good kind of disoriented that 12-bottles of domestic gives me.

Half the blog appeals to grown men sitting in their mother's basement and the other to people who read kind of boring blogs. I just don't get it. Are you a naughty girl or a housewife? I demand that you choose. I'm not deep enough to think you could be both. I thought for a moment that her husband must be a happy man but then on second thought he probably would just like her to stay naked and shut up.

Anything that's hard for me to read at work doesn't work for me and my slacker tendencies and the posts didn't hold my interest. My best advice here is to clean up your template and think about creating a separate blog for your dirty, dirty ways. Anyone who is interested in what you write about would not be interested in your ill-na-nah.

Just saying.

Lara, you're all flash and no fire.

With that I have officially run out colorful descriptive terms for vaginas, twats and crotches. I don't hate June Cleaver on crack enough to give her the flaming finger and frankly, I think she'd like it. And I really don't fucking love her.

Once the shock value wore off I was left feeling slightly violated and less than entertained. I would give her a star or two for her writing but the weird duality she has going on just makes me say:

Holy Shit, I'm Actually Posting Two Weeks...In a Row!

As a reviewer, I'm always excited to see how others present themselves on the web. How they live their lives, even if it's boring and trivial. I like to hear about the places they live, where they go out to eat, where they shop, and how they interact with others. As a reviewer on this site, I have always read at least 5 or 6 posts, even if it's perfectly clear that I dislike what they say, how they say it, or how many words they use to convey their thoughts. Until now. Until Joker's Madness. And here's why.

I REFUSE TO READ A BLOG WHERE THE ENTRIES ARE WRITTEN EXCLUSIVELY IN CAPS!!!! DO. NOT. WANT!!!! QUIT YELLING AT ME!!! I KNOW THERE ARE THINGS THAT PISS YOU OFF IN YOUR LIFE, BUT TURN THE GODDAMN FUCKING VOLUME DOWN AND MAYBE I'LL PAY SOME ATTENTION!!! FURTHERMORE, I HATE CLICKING "NEXT POST" JUST TO GET YELLED AT SOME MORE!!! YOU ARE A COLOSSAL DOUCHEBAG!!!!

Until you turn of the caps and stop making people click "next page" for each post, I give you a and a and a

Thanks for playing, jackhole. Do us all a favor and get off the internet.