Drivel for Nice People

So I have this friend, Blubbering Vlad, who's the type of guy who you want to be around when there's trouble brewing. Not that he's all that handy, or good with his fists, or even all that smart; he's just a hell of a lot of fun. And he's likely to help keep the heat off your trail acting as a distraction to any authorities who may be inclined to give you a second glance.

Needless to say, when I go on the prowl, his place is one of the first stops I make on my way out of town.

But when the phone rings and the miracle of modern caller ID tells me that it's Blub, I will not ever pick up. Never. Because, fun and useful as he is out running through the swamps, trying to have an actual conversation with him on a phone is excruciatingly dull, dull, dull. The guy simply has nothing to say and uses way too many syllables to get that nothing conveyed.

Reading today's blog (A Hundred Indecisions) reminded me of my dear friend.

The author, who reveals her name very reluctantly and tells us virtually nothing at all about herself directly, is 24 year old Gini from Delhi, an architecture student, and .... Well, shit, that's kind of it. She writes in complete sentences. Complains about poor spelling in text messages. Seems to grouse regularly about the life she has laid out before her, as though she is powerless to effect a change. Hell for all I know, she is. But it seems pretty fucked up that she seems to have virtually nothing positive to say about becoming an architect for all the time she seems to devote to it.

What does that leave me with? I am left with another iteration of the same old question -- what the hell are you writing this for? You do not seem possessed of literary demons that must be unleashed, lest they eat you up inside. If anything, you seem to have literary kittens that occasionally need a ball of yarn to play with or to have their bellies scratched. I am not transported within your words, I am instead driven to fits of ADD. The remotest shiny bauble captures my attention over your words.

So. What the hell can you do about this? Is it so awful? No, not awful. Just dreadfully mundane. And I suspect that this is a direct result of Gini writing this blog before she has experienced anything.

No, that's not true. She has. As a newly hatched from the nest High School grad she traveled alone from her home in Delhi to Chennai, over two thousand km distant, and took up at school there, trying to fit into a culture very different from what she was used to. A writer would have wrested an entire novel from that setup alone.

So, let me leave you with a question and then a rating. First the question: Gini, when you sleep at night, what do you dream of?

And now for the rating.



Meh. Meh. Meh.

Figure out why you're doing this, and if you aren't doing it because your muse will fucking kill you in your sleep if you don't, don't submit for a review from a bunch of clove cigarette smoking, beret wearing, edgy, aging hipsters like us. We'll all be that much happier. I promise.

No, THIS is tellin' like it is

You know what we haven't had around here for awhile? A mommy blog.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Am I not the perfect person to review this blog? The single, childless, 30-year-old. Woot woot.

Anyway, why the hell did this chick submit here? While we have people who happen to be parents affiliated with this site, I really don't think we're the audience she's looking for.

For instance, look at her word cloud:


Are you kidding me? The only time I willingly read shit like this is when I'm in the waiting room of a doctor's office and my only other option is Sports Illustrated.

I mean, this lady took the time to write a post about the evolution of her hair. And uploaded pictures at each stage. Who gives a shit about that? Other mommy bloggers and the ladies from her birthing class.

(Check out the results from the poll in the link above. It should give you an idea of her readership.)

She uploads tons of boring pictures of her kid. The only people who want to see pics like that are grandmas. Not just any grandmas, but the grandmas of the child in question.

About a month ago, she gave a play by play update on her kid's illness. Ended up being just a fucking COLD. Again, grandmas only care about that shit.

Now, one could claim I have nothing in common with this blogger, therefore her blog is not my cuppa and to just move on.

Fuck that.

I have plenty of mommy and a few daddy bloggers in my reader. There's a huge difference between those blogs and the blog up for review today. The bloggers I read haven't let their children completely define their existence. Their blogs aren't about being parents; they're about their real lives, which just happen to include parenting. They don't try to portray their lives as idyllic and Stepford-esque. The bloggers make me care about them and about their kids. They actually make me want to be a parent myself, even when they write about the kid getting into his own diaper and smearing poop on the walls.

Polka Dot Hippo makes me want to go out and get a hysterectomy. If parenthood equals zombies with no personality, who have no life and nothing to talk about besides their kid, I'll pass, thank you very much.

Wasted Words

Tits. Tits. TITS. See, television is a great spectacle even if the people on it seem to take themselves way too seriously. In fact, the world is filled with people without a sense of humor, and that's never fun when you're trying to make a balloon animal out of someone's guts. "Oh human cruelty" this, "mother of five" that - party tricks aren't what they used to be. But on TV land, there's a show that simply doesn't give a fuck about this human concept of "reality" and is an orgy of tits, guts, blood and more tits. Yes, I'm plugging Spartacus, go watch it - it'll be a lot more entertaining than anything you'll see today. That dull pain I'm feeling is the sensation of a hot poker up my arse, a gentle reminder from Shiner that there's a review upon us.

So Astrodominie, welcome to fantasy island. I'm not sure Astrodominie means, and my gut tells me not to investigate. So let's pick a random letter and go with it - how's J? So J blogs on "The Thick Plottens", and aw shucks, ain't that clever? Says J - "I’m a 23-year-old girl living it up in India. That’s all you probably need to know". I'd be happy to cut my losses and move on, but she tells us more about herself anyway - in style reminiscent of a piss poor dating website from the past. Not that I would know, I was simply checking to see what the fuss was all about SHUT UP.

Just about every post on the blog is a list of some sort, and I hate lists. Lists are bad for a blog. They're an easy way out churn out words, add no cohesive thought and make the reader care very little about the post in its entirety. Take this and this. Cut the posts into half and mix them up. Does anything seem out of order? Will it hold a reader's attention? Will it make him/her care about the random shit that happened in your life last month?

I must admit, I liked the idea of using a line from a song as the title. I found myself scrolling down to catch the name of the song owing to the dim sounds of bells ringing in my head. But in doing so, I ended up skipping most of your generic posts one after another.

Now J, it might seem I'm sick of you and want to phone it in by tossing in a finger or two. But the thing is, I do like you. A little. Kinda. See, you're a 90s child and think much like I would. We're in the same age group, and of similar backgrounds. When I visit a blog I want to see something I can identify with but see it in a way I hadn't thought of before. Even though you cop out with your lists, you're clearly capable of sustaining a thought and writing about something that matters to you.

But you lose focus too soon. Going back in time through your blog, I see a clear pattern. There's a thought, an idea that leads to a post. Then there's another thought, a vague mashup of words that probably mean something to you, but really, waste a reader's time. Then there's silence on the radio, and you comeback with a stupid list.

J, when you finish writing, how about reading your post once more and guessing what a first time reader's reaction might be? If its "hmmm, so?", then don't hesitate to hit the delete button. Say nothing if you don't have anything worthwhile to write about. You clearly read more than I do, and that's always a positive when you're trying to flirt with writing. In fact, its when you talk about books you seem to hold your own and have something meaningful to say. Its not terribly original but I can see evidence of something I'd bother revisiting your blog for.

When I visit a blog, while I do appreciate familiarity with the subject, I want to read a different take on it. From this list, I actually chuckled at the idea of a single girl with a Harry Potter bawling her eyes out on a plane. Why couldn't this have been a single post? If you don't mind vague posts under 100 words, why not write something meaningful even if sacrifices word count?

There's a constant subplot about moving to Hyderabad for what I imagine was your first job, and then back(?) to Chennai for hmm, I don't know. so why not explore that in better detail? Instead of itemizing what you miss and what you don't, how about picking one and bitching the shit out of that motherfucker?

Too many questions J, and I'm not sure if taking it easy just to post on your blog will answer any of them.

For the occasional blip in the radar, you get a meh







For boring the shit out of me with juvenile lists

Oh! The Places That Are There That You Will Point Towards!

I have a favorite coffee shop.  It's pretty standard, as far as coffee shops go. The owner/barista has a tattoo of a fox curling around his ear, with the tail tracing underneath his jaw and I am in love with him.  He eyes me with pleasured surprise, tickles my palm with the tips of his fingers when he hands me my change, brushes eyes with me at the exact moment of contact and grins wickedly.  I hold my breath, blushing like a proper whore.  He is the most charming man I've ever met.  No force can shatter our lusty, caffeinated kinship.  That shit is spiritual.  I turn shyly to catch the next customer getting the same treasured gaze, and it smells like cinnamon and desire and I'm sure he douses his carrot cake with aphrodisiacs and I'm proud to be a part of his business, because that dude is sexy as hell.

Caryn also has a favorite coffee shop, but I don't really understand why.  It just sounds like another coffee shop.  She's a Jewish ESFJ who likes a tidy little Sunday, having a boyfriend, and reading her Kindle and eating giant tins of popcorn, but who doesn't like Holiday popcorn? Fucking everybody likes Holiday popcorn.  Except for the haters, who can suck it. 

But you see, Balance Overload is not really so much about the story of Caryn as it is about stuff, and stuff that is very safe, and her advice about stuff that is safe.  Since she's a college career counselor, this is unsurprising.  But as we all know: the information a blogger chooses to omit says just as much about them as what they include.  Her mom reads her blog, poor thing.  Caryn, honestly, what the fuck were you thinking?

Yeah, I know, your mom is your best friend and you tell her like everything, you fucking liar. You write with bland assurance and mechanical perfection, you give us at least one adorable aside per post and you end with questions intended to illicit small discussion.  Clockwork.  It's the sort of masked dynamic that makes me angry and then very, very sad, as if you want to articulate something important about yourself, but you don't want to reveal too much so you say it about the fucking Bachelor instead.

It's shit like that that brings me to my next point, which is integral: it is more important to me to defend the honor of Cottonelle over Charmin than it is to hear about your "religious odyssey", and my reasons are twofold:

1. Cottonelle is like wiping my ass with rainbows after shitting gold.
2.  You give me no explanation as to why you and JB were conflicted in your interfaith relationship.  I sense no tension in your words, I can find no reason for wasting your time on counseling.  You are speaking in generalities.  If I want to read generalities on interfaith relationships I will buy a book written by a fucking expert. But I want to hear about YOU, nancy-girl.

Your most telling entry, and your best, is this, and I like it so much I will link it twice.  This is who you are.  You are energized by simple pleasures and conclusions, and I dig that because it's personal and it fits you. It also tells me you're concerned with the destination rather than the journey.  Yes, you are.  YES YOU ARE.  Don't argue with me, I'm right.  Your blog is about general conclusions you make about stuff, with nothing detailing how you got there.

Unfortunately, that's not at all what I care about. 

Hoochie Coochie Man

Christmas in the Raptor family is a low key affair. We nod politely at our neighbors who're desperate to inject some cheer in their lives since the only other attempt at family bonding is during turkey day, and is almost always a failure. I mean, imagine a herd of stegos staring quizzically staring at meat, not knowing where the grass is. Still, this season gives me the chance to empty whatever's left of my scotch inventory and stock up for the coming year.

This time of the year, I need all the help I get from inebriation, for there are more colors to behold than an acid trip in a 70s disco. Kind of like today's blog. Cogent Ascending is authored by someone who describes himself thus "My mind is the waste management facility of the gay intellectual". I must confess, that makes no sense to me, and would have made no difference if I wasn't this hungover. My pounding head aside, this review took a lot of hard work. Well, a lot of focus anyway. I use a battery of filters and blockers to keep my browser light and functional, and to blot out shit I can't be wasting my time with. So when I fired up cogent ascending, I was surprised to see large empty spaces and captions floating in the middle of whitespace. I turned the filters off, and lo behold, my eyes were subjected to more flesh and absurdities than a B-grade horror flick. And this review would have taken a lot less effort if EVERY FUCKING POST didn't look like it was printed on a pamphlet for a lame garage sale.

Jorge(?), your interests are listed as "writing, reading" but how the fuck do you expect your readers to appreciate any of that if you fuck up the presentation so bad? There's a reason every piece of prose is written in left-to-right orientation, and no "personal preference" justifies formatting otherwise. I deserve a fucking medal for braving on, for tolerating this assault on my senses. Jorge rips on creationists, homophobes and religious douches. These days any talentless schmuck can get a soapbox to to pick right wingers (hi Fallon!), so reading the blog bored me. Making fun of Palin is like tweeting. Everyone does it and no one brings  anything original to the table.

Look Jorge, don't get me wrong - it fills me with uncontrollable rage that a section of the society is still persecuted against. I cannot fathom why you puny humans need legistlation to deny basic happiness to your own kind. I see the need for debate, and can understand why someone in your position would be so cynical and bitter. What I don't get is why you try so hard. When things are this bad, a blog should write itself. It doesn't need to be supplemented by lousy pictures, bad formatting and histrionics. Fine, even if it is "your thing", it makes no sense cramming it down your readers' throats 3000 words per post.

You're an opinionated, educated, gay man living in Vegas. I see opportunity. I see you have a platform. I see you wasting it. Clean up your act already. Here's an exercise. Write 5 posts in a row with no pictures and a 200 word limit. Right now you're that out of control wierdo at the bar who won't shut the fuck up. I have a lousy hangover and your stupid blog sure didn't help. I'm going back to sleep.

For your terrible formatting and all those stupid pictures you get a solitary finger








For banal self indulgence you get a meh

Bull's Pizzle

In my everyday gig I have to be encouraging and positive and nice. So when I got the chance to rip people apart I was fairly ecstatic. My students are a captive audience, and not in a good way. They don’t choose to be there, they have to be. But bloggers - ah, dear sweet, misguided bloggers; they indeed choose to inflict their words onto the world. One would then assume that they would be competent at what they do and have some awareness of their skill. That would then mean that if I paddled their bum it would be called for.

However, I must admit that being negative towards even the most deserving of muppets can harsh one’s buzz. I am all about me, and keeping me happy, so for this review I am going to try and be constructive and helpful; get some feel good vibes flowing round the place. And yes, it will quite possibly be excruciatingly boring.

If E-Rizzle handed me this blog and I were to give it a carefully considered comment in a teacherly fashion, I believe this is what I might say:

E-Rizzle,

As you were instructed, the assignment was for you to hand in a blog that was engaging, thought provoking, well written, possibly amusing, and well presented. You needed to give a clear sense of yourself, your life and stories.  

Your blog is well presented, even though white writing on a black background isn’t my cup of tea.  

You say that your blog is not a mommy blog, which technically it isn’t; it is a hopeful-mommy-to-be blog. So there is a lot of talk of eggs and PCOS and jealousy over those who are up the duff while you are not. There a lots of ‘update’ style posts that may be interesting to your loved ones or friends from your previous blogs, however a new reader will not be immediately engaged or invested as one of the aforementioned readers. What can you do to hook in someone, like an AAYSR reader, to continue reading even after finding out your eggs are scrambled? I believe that many may find some common ground in stories such as a this but they may find it hard to get reach said common ground when they have to wade through your other posts which often end with ‘I am sorry that was so lame.’ If you knew it was going to be lame, why did you post it?  

I really liked this story; hilarious, but it could have been shortened and tightened to make sure you don’t lose your audience before they got to the good bit. I found your story on flatulence a bit belaboured. The scenario you paint is not my experience. My partner and I are quite happy to back up to one another in bed and let one rip, whereby ruffling the bedclothes, ladylike-ness be damned. I am just sorry that your bottom is not so untethered.  

You are a lawyer, and therefore intelligent, and possibly well-bred however I do not feel it is necessary for you to show how bad-ass you are by throwing in a few ‘fucks’, ‘piss’ and, my personal favourite, ‘spooge’ into the mixture. I believe that it detracts from your writing, as well as jarring my delicate eyes. Even so, I do understand that we are all adults here.

E-Rizzle, I quite like you and I get what you are going through, however your writing doesn’t move me. If you would like to resubmit this assignment for a higher grade I suggest (if you haven’t figured it out already) you:

• Drop the swearing. It just doesn’t sit well for some reason. 
• Try and tell a whole, stands-by-itself story in a post. Check out Mr London Street’s 100 Word Posts for an insight as to how one may do this. By all means have bits and pieces updates, but keep them to a minimum.

I hope that this feedback has been helpful and I wish you all the best with your pregnancy. Until you decide to work using your full potential I give you a:

So Asskers, how was that? Anyone care to incur the wrath of a ‘karmic crowbar’ and have at it? I don’t know about you but I feel all sorta warm and fuzzy.

It's Out There Now, Lurking Like a Big Hairy Rapist at a Coach Station.

I've never been political.  Sure, I feel strongly about certain issues, vote with my fists and fight people when they disagree with me, but that's just who I am by nature.  Really has nothing to do with politics.  Okay, well, so by strict definition you could say my life is only politics, just outside the realm of Big-G-Government.  Modern political discourse gives me fucking indigestion.  Some dumbfuck mentions Glenn Beck or Michael Moore and I need wintergreen Pepto-Bismol with a burning, clenched Pavlovian fervor - seriously, right now anyone who glances my way probably thinks I haven't shat in a week. 

Still, I'm reviewing the blog of a twenty-year old, bright, impassioned British boy who plays for the conservatives.  Being a self-absorbed American with no party affiliation and a limited exposure to British politics that includes getting hammered and watching a shit-ton of C-Span 3 archived House of Commons videos in 2001 and salivating over Malcolm Tucker insults from In the Loop, I figured I'm about as qualified to review Richard's blog as anyone else.


Like I said, Richard is bright. At the wee age of twenty, he easily understands more about politics than the last American President, littered with the proper astringentositinessery of defensive youth (I make up words).  He recently chose to forego university, a decision I fully support (I hate that college is becoming a requirement instead of a compliment) but he seems to be bitter as fuck about it.

In fact, that's really the only thing I like about him:  it's hilariously frustrating watching him temper with rationality while he's obviously whipping his personal rage into submission and trying to squeeze it out into logic, but that fury seeps into the cracks and we know, we can tell, this Type A boy is fucking struggling to be a sensible, model citizen. 

Richard, you fucking puritan:  chill out.  Take a deep breath.  Go get yourself into some good, clean mischief, because boy, you are wound tight.  Are you this serious about everything you do? You're even serious about Doctor Who and World of Warcraft.  Take a lesson from Tenant's incarnation:  life, like time, is like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey-stuff.  Nothing is certain, progress is never linear, and retaining your humanity does not mean rein in, repress, and repeat, it means allowing yourself to feel all the colors on the spectrum with zeal and triumphing out of the sheer love of existence and a fascination with and mad respect for the world that allows you to exist in the first place.

You are an intelligent, passionate boy and your blog is informative and formal and I feel like you're choking the life out of your writing when you should be choking the life out of your dick.  I think this blog is important to you and you want to keep it professional.  That's fine.  But you're fucking twenty years old and this is boring as shit.  You're a "good writer."  But all that means is you're grammatically accurate and have average-to-above average word choice.  You aren't afraid to tell us your opinion, but you're afraid to put yourself into it.  Maybe you're going for textbook, informative opinion pieces and that's fine.  If that's what you're going for.  It's...you know.  Fine. It's not for me.

But here's what I want you to do. 

1.  Start anonymous blog.
2.  Go to video store that has porn.
3.  Rent some porn.
4.  Overcome your shame of facing the clerk.  
5.  Pay for porn in all small coins. 
6.  Go home.
7.  Watch porn.
8.  Jack off.
9.  Review porn on new blog.

The Ugly American Speaks

I am unabashedly American. Not in a jingoistic, patriotic sense, but in the stereotypical manner. I am overfed and under-exercised. I have too many TVs, computers and cars. I have too few…hmmmm….don’t think I have too few of anything because if there’s something I want, I go to the mall and buy it. My house is big and so is my ass.

But unlike most Americans, I have traveled quite a bit. Granted, the majority of my international travel has been to Europe, which is easy. However, a trip to Japan last year reminded me of what it really meant to be in a foreign land. In Europe I can fake it—thanks to a few years of Latin topped off by several semesters of French, I can decipher most anything in a romance language. But in Japan, I couldn’t even tell you the name of my hotel. It was daunting.

Aside from a few places in Africa, I can’t imagine a place more foreign than India. What I know of India comes from Kipling, Ghandi and Eat, Pray, Love. It’s not a place that’s high on my wish list of vacation spots. But then neither is North Dakota.

All that brings me to Kavitha Murali and her blog, Namesake. Please, for the love of Ganesha, why do I have the blog of a young Indian woman to review? Kavitha, you seem like a perfectly lovely young woman. You seem to have an energetic mind. So here’s a thought—why not open up the eastern branch of AAYSR? You could be queen of the realm and then all the Indian bloggers could be reviewed by their peers. I think the franchise price is low.

Because, dear Kavitha, as nice as you seem, I just don’t give a flying fuck in a rolling doughnut hole about your blog. Equally, why do you give a flying fuck in a rolling doughnut hole about my opinion about your blog? When you submit here, you roll the dice on which reviewer you get.

I’m sorry, but you got me. A small-town Southerner. About as far away from you as I am from the moon.

Your writing is fine. Like 90% of our submitters, you need to edit. When you write a post, check your word count. Then decrease it by 100. I promise you’ll have a better blog.

White type on a black background should be illegal as far as I’m concerned.

It’s the content that’s the problem. I read blogs from around the world. Good bloggers are storytellers. They grab my attention from the first sentence and keep it until the last. Dear Kavitha, you did neither.

Mundane. Mediocre. Middle of the road.

But, like I said: why do you care? Why do so many of your countrymen submit here? This is not a rhetorical question—I really want to know.

If your blog makes you happy, keep on writing.

In the meantime, I bestow a








I don’t hate you. I don’t love you. I just don’t care.

Why Cultivate on Your Face What Grows Wild on Your Bum?

I am guilty of locational friendships. For the sake of my job I was once stuck in a bleak, sheep and wheat ridden town in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere. I made friends with people I wouldn’t normally and we all played happy. I even fell into the trap of thinking I wasn’t someone else’s zip-code comrade, which was a karmic kick in the crotch when I returned to the big smoke.

Please don’t misinterpret my intentions. I love making friends. I am a big galumphing puppy dog in that way, minus the leg-humping. Friends that are relegated to the locational, well, they don’t start out that way – I always dearly hope there will be something real there for us. So when I meet a new blog or person, I want to like them, relate with them, laugh with them, and if the hero worship is high, be best buddies them.

Reviewing the blogs of others, I am forced into a locational friendship of sorts. I don’t necessarily want to be there but for all intents and purposes I must. I am a beggar but dammit if I am going to give up being choosy. Sure, a lot of the women in this part of BF Nowhere have breasts that are well acquainted with their navels and the men haven’t seen a brush of the tooth or hair variety in years but I must persist. I have to have someone to drink with.

Weary blogger, I ask you this: When a stranger happens upon your blog, do they want to make friends with you or do they cross to the other side of the street muttering ‘don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact - I will drink and die alone before I hang out with you’ ?

When I first met Wildhare, I was harangued with this. Here lies an aura of crazy cat lady at the bus stop who practically sits on your knee, offers you a fluff covered butterscotch sweet and proceeds to tell you about the skin tag she has that bears a resemblance to the Virgin Mary. Like the old lady at the bus stop, Wildhare seems to ignore that the person whose lap she has clambered upon has no vested in her life or her history. She may believe that her readers are mostly beleaguered family and friends but I am here to tell her that regardless, she must tell her stories like the person reading them is a stranger.

Peeking into the archives with pinkie finger delicately raised and nosed wrinkled, I saw that Wildhare is only partially a crazy cat lady; she genuinely seems to be a lovely person who keeps some good company. Her posts consist of random lectures, photos of family, outings, trips, garden projects, crafts, recipes, song lyrics and poems. I don’t get why she includes poems and lyrics, finding it redundant and vaguely insulting.

Just in case you were wondering, this mutual circle jerk and part-time review site is called ‘I Will Fucking Tear You Apart’. This is not scrap-booker hipster code for ‘Here is a lovely pattern for you to tear out and keep – enjoy!’ Some of Wildhare’s stuff is cute and all, but it is for a specific audience and I am at a loss to why she asked for a review from here. Even so, I was impressed with her wares and skills. (And fuck it if I don’t want one of these bunnies now).

Wildhare isn’t just about the crafty stuff. In her ‘about me’ she writes: I am a wife, a daughter, a mother, a grandmother, a pet owner, a nature lover. I enjoy reading and writing, working with my hands, crafting, creating, holding fine papers and marking them with fine inks. I am enamored with science, physics, facts. I love the complex, the mysterious, the simple, and the sublime. I am a reader of hard science fiction, an admirer of chaos theory, a lover of mathematics and art.... and so on.

This all may well be true, however in my thorough archive dive I didn’t see sufficient evidence of this interesting person; it hasn’t translated to her writing. She loves the complex, simple, sublime - to be fair that doesn’t mean she has to BE those things. But happy snaps and birthday wishes to family members does not an appealing blog make. This meme shows us a bit more about her. I want to hear these stories in detail, with nary a dot point to be seen.

Wildhare mentions she is gearing up for her second NaNoWriMo. Why in the name of Charles Dickens does she not use her blog to hone her writing skills? Are they a finite resource to be saved for these future novels rather than her loyal blog readers? Why write about thievery in numerical dot points? Does she lack the writerly wherewithal to meld all of these into a story that has her reader boo-hooing into their banana bread, instead of a staccato, seemingly contradictory lecture? The story about her brother’s death is rife with an undercurrent of disharmony; what is she not telling us? That is what us nosey bastards want to know. And why the ‘egad’? I have respect and sadness for her loss but why not chuck in a ‘gadzooks’ while she’s at it?

I am as full of ego as the next person. I have been guilty of bloggy locational friendships, adding blogs to my roll just because a blogger had paid me a bit of attention. Starved for companionship I clung to the crumbs handed out by the bedraggled and droopy-boobed. I was soon cured of that fool-hardy venture when I realised that I would be judged on the company I keep. (It is okay, I am at peace with my shallow nature.)

When it comes down to it, I was happy to keep the company of Wildhare for the duration of this review. She has a gift for craft, a nice life, a loving, talented family and I am genuinely happy for her. But this, my dear, is where the friendship ends.

A meh because, well, meh.

And this one because I wanted to be part of her family, just a little bit.

And this one? Not for Wildhare but for Blogger, for fucking with the head of this techno-lame Wordpress user. It took me over an hour to figure out how to post the bastard. Editing, what editing?

One Lump or Two?

Time and time again, I am presented with a fresh victim. And rather than relish the delightful treat I am about to excoriate, I ask myself “Why would this seemingly normal human being request a review from us?”

"For validation," seems to be a frequent response, and all I can do is wonder whether these poor creatures know how to read. Or if they have an inkling what “I Will Fucking Tear You Apart” means. They clearly have picked the wrong review site. They certainly have happened upon the wrong reviewer. Unlike some reviewers here who can be seduced by a certain quaint charm, I cannot. If you wish to curry my favor, it comes down to a simple rubric. Do you expand my mind? Do I find myself longing to read just one more post? Do you turn a phrase in a new and fresh way that causes me to look anew upon the mundane and everyday? Or are you trite? Do you overwhelm with clichés and small-talk?

I hate trite, clichés and small-talk. Okay, hate’s an awfully strong word. I understand these things have their place, but I would probably rather remove my own spleen with a rusty fishhook than sit through too much small-talk. I bet that sounds like I’m using hyperbole to make a point, but to tell the truth, the fact that I would get such an amazing story out of removing my own spleen with a rusty fishhook has me contemplating just how many hours of small-talk would push me to that extreme. And it is not as high a number as you might think.

People frequently write for very different reasons than they have for reading, and often what makes for a compelling story that you want to share makes for a chore for a thinking human to read. Especially when the presumed purpose of your writing is merely to make social connections. To share awards. To spread memes. This sort of writing is the literary equivalent of a coffee-clatch, a place where weary mothers can get together to chit-chat about their days, their children or grandkids, and, I dunno, scrapbook or something. And I bet that there are a lot of people who get something out of this. There are likely hundreds of thousands of people (maybe even more) for whom this sort of interaction, whether in person or in the virtual world of Blogger or Wordpress, fills some urgent inner need.

But this is a need I do not have. And so, I cannot relate. I must come to you today to report that Nancy, a mid-thirties mother of two, originally from India, but now living in Dubai, UAE with her husband of 11 years, spends way too much time with online chit-chat for my liking.

I am not completely heartless. Nancy does get a lot of feedback via this chit-chat that really feeds her in ways that she needs, so I would never for the life of me tell her to stop what she’s doing. But I might ask in an extremely pointed manner what in the name of all that is sacred to her was she expecting from a review here? I gather that she is a fairly conservative person, in terms of subject matter that she feels is appropriate. I could be wrong. Still, I was getting the distinct impression that the concept of being FUCKING torn apart would be reprehensible to her. So, again, why? Why here?

As luck would have it, we actually have another quitter on our hands. By my calculations, about a month before requesting a review, Nancy declared that she was going on hiatus for an indeterminate period of time, only breaking away from her self-imposed moratorium to post one more meme. All I can imagine is that she was hoping that she would get some sort of spark from me telling her that, Gosh Awmighty, if she didn’t immediately start writing again, I was going to kill myself. But in fairness to you, to me, and truthfully to her as well, I can’t provide her with that spark.

Because if that spark comes from outside of you, it does not belong to you at all.

All that aside, I do want to say that I learned some very interesting things from Nancy. About life in the United Arab Emirates, and about what it is like to have an arranged marriage. And for that, I am genuinely grateful that I read the last year’s worth of posts.

I always like to leave my victims with some pointers on how to improve, and Nancy is no exception. I have several ideas. She may not be interested in any of them, and she is certainly free to ignore everything about this review.

• Please stop spelling in shorthand. It hurts my cerebral cortex. “Coz” is wrong. It is spelled “because,” or “’cause” if pressed for time. And “of course” is two words, not one.
• Edit. A lot. Get to the point quicker. Brevity is a virtue. Even your better posts were a chore to read simply owing to unnecessary length and meandering off the point.
• Stop blogging about blogging about blogging. Or blog buddies. Or blog awards. Or memes (or as you call them “tags”).
• The kinds of things that we, the people who don’t know you but who might happen upon your blog, want to know are buried deep. Who you are. Why you blog. What you’re all about. And even then, out of a year’s worth of posts, maybe three were really personal, what’s-Nancy-really-like stuff. The rest were trivia. Trivia is okay, but not very substantial. Bring that stuff out more. Push it to the front on an About Me page. Or give up on people like me.

It Must Be Karma

You’ll never guess what, my darling little scallops! Today we are going to review the blog of an earnest young Indian woman! An utterly new experience for us all! I can’t tell you how excited I am. I have even had Fanny loosen my truss. This site does attract a great deal of variations on a theme, and we must get almost as many earnest young Indian women as we do self-proclaimed ‘mad’ mommies and sexually-unheimlich humourists.

It was hard to review this blog. I would sit down to read it and five minutes later find that I had wandered without realising into the pantry and had consumed a pound of cheese. Or I would discover that I had been staring for untold hours at the dead wasp on the windowsill, or was consumed with the need to cut my toenails right now. Once when I thought I was making headway I woke up three days later in a burger bar in Penge dressed as Penelope Keith with three new and unsettling tattoos.

The first problem is that Live on Impulse is not overly keen on the paragraph break but does enjoy the exclamation mark, leaving me feeling as though I had been buttonholed by a particularly enthusiastic head girl. I’m sure she makes some good points here, for example, but such a relentless slab of text is as insurmountable to me as a pile of Fanny’s notoriously dense flapjacks. It gives me a headache all over.

This blog was so uncomfortable to read that I found myself not caring a jot about the content. However, because I am a brave soldier I forced myself to concentrate, and after several pots of tea, trips to the W.C. and a twenty-four-hour rum-and-Sanatogen bender, I managed to read some posts. I wasn’t much impressed. Fair play to Live on Impulse, she is a socially-aware young woman who wants the world to be a better place, but we all care about injustice, even me (well, I care about whether I get away with it or not). I’m sure she’s a charming young women with a winning outlook on life, I just found her rather exhausting.

Live on Impulse claims that she is compelled to write, but she doesn’t seem to put much effort into it. Look at this. This is just a series of mentions, it gives me nothing. There’s no thought in it, no detail, it feels rushed and unloved. She worries that she doesn’t produce enough meaningful stuff, but I think she could if she just shut up and thought about it for a while. I looked in vain to find a post actually describing her wedding. And those blasted smiley faces make her look childish and far less intelligent than she actually is.

Liveonimpulse, here are some words of advice. Get out your English grammar book and refresh your memory. Read your posts back carefully. Put spaces after full stops. Using two exclamation marks after every sentence makes you look like an idiot. Paragraphs and punctuation make your work easier to read and less likely to induce a fit of the vapours in rickety old reviewers. Most importantly, remember the old chestnut and show, don’t tell.

I do try to find the good in things, I really do, but sometimes one is faced with something that one just outright doesn’t enjoy and this is one of those times. To be honest, I found Live on Impulse boring and a little tedious. I did not enjoy reading it and I did not enjoy reviewing it, and to top it all off there’s a lot of really buttock-clenchingly awful poetry.

Live on Impulse gets a Meh, and I am going to wrap myself up in a blanket and sit in the airing cupboard.

Yellow Submarine

I've been terribly late (that's what she said? oh shut it) with this review, and I apologize. In fact, I still don't quite have the mental bandwidth for a big ass review, so read this post thrice if you feel it's too short.

I've mentioned before that we retreated to underground bunkers when life top-side got a tad predictable. Boy bands sealed the deal, we'd rather take lava pits than listen to Ronan Keating's soporific voice. No guitar solos? What the fuck were you humans getting into? Anyway, curiosity gets the better of us and we check on you cultured apes now and then. A great way to jump from shore to shore is reading, and blogs are a great way to get around. If they're written right. If they're not gaudy enough to make my retinas bleed. If the author doesn't peddle shit in lieu of writing. If no opportunity to tell a story is squandered. If opinions are brutally honest. Right.

Today we visit the exotic shores of India, where a billion people are apparently on the road trying to get somewhere (have you seen the blasted traffic there?). Jil Jil Ramamani is a blog maintained by a lady whose name is not Jil Jil Ramamani. I'm not sure what language the about me is in, and I sense a wall of culture I'm about to run into. There's something about why the blog is called what it is, it could probably be modified and used for your "prophyle". The design reeks of local pop-culture, and if that's your thing, sure. All that colour was a tad overwhelming, but I have a memo here that says no one gives a shit anymore. Navigation is piss-poor, I couldn't figure out how to get to the previous pages without using the archives. You do want your readers to linger, don't you?

The latest post is emo - so whoop-de-doo, "NEVER FORGET" (old inside joke Sindhu, never mind). You aspire to be a biker chick and I like that. Just wear some goddamn deo, ok? I get the feeling you're a college kid, and I guess life is exciting even when it's a fuckin' 120 degrees all year long. English isn't your first language (nor a Raptor's) so I won't nitpick about grammar and the like. I'm averse to blogging with lists, especially long ones, but yours' give me an insight into life on the other side of the globe, even if it isn't intentional. There's coming-of-age writing, some musing and other random shit I won't bother linking.

Thing is Sindhu, while I find your blog readable, your writing isn't always tolerable. Writing and talking are two separate things, and blogging like you're yammering about some female teenage shit I can't be arsed about makes me want to drink a gallon of bleach. I'm sure you like the loudmouth, constantly chattering you, but I can't be the only one who hates it. Knock that shit off, respect the medium you're on. I'm going backwards on your blog and since I'm hating it more and more by every post, you've probably gotten better over the years.


Since you like lists, here's one for you:

1) Edit, proof read and edit some more.
2) Use colloquialisms more sparingly, and with better context if you want international readership.
3) Don't write like you're cooing over the phone.
4) Write more often. And I'm not talking about "whee I'm back" posts.
5) Enough of the damned gtalk conversations.
6) More stories, more opinions.
7) Stop selling shit on your blog. If you must, use a separate website and link it up on your sidebar - it's shiny as it is.


Meh, back to my single malt.

That's why her hair is so big: it's full of secrets.

As any regular readers can tell, I don't shy away from swearing. Identifying myself as a person who clutters her speech with extravagant curses is like working for the Department of Redundancy Department. You people can deduce my fondness for profanity on your own because you aren't fucking goldfish.

Of course, some bloggers, like One Crazy Brunette Chick, find it necessary to shock and tug us in specified direction by grabbing our ears and thrusting obscenities down our throats. No regard for foreplay or discipline, it's just, "I SAY FUCK A LOT!!! FUCKINDEALWITHIT!! LIFE SUCKS, CUNTS!!!" as if we'll recoil at the impiety or something.

CB, lady, that shit is tired. Everyone says fuck a lot. It's not shocking, it's not revolutionary, it's the way a million bajillion people speak all the time, and the fact that a grown woman is shilling it as some sort of slutty rebellion is a bit fatigued. We get it. You're so bad. You wear stilettos and swear. The dichotomy is mind-blowing. Fuckin' hooray.

Honestly, I find the whole thing quite boring.

Cursing and exclamation points and a faux sociopathic surface don't make bloggers more interesting, just more widespread and demanding. You wanna fucking prove you're a fucking bad ass by fucking having a verbal fucking fuckathon? BRING IT.

See, I can throw sporadic fucks around too, but that doesn't make my writing any better. Too much vulgarity is one-dimensional and boring, unless it compliments the story. I feel like you're blogging just to remind everyone you know how to run your fucking mouth. Apparently your life is full of internet drama that I don't understand, since I run in a different pack of bloggers - you know, the ones that write because they have to write, not because they want to shit-talk. Which is odd to think about, since I write here.

You claim to have a number of enhancing characteristics:

...it takes a considerable amount of FABulous to be a crazy ass, eccentric, dramatic, charming, and classy lady like myself.

but you've got the charm of a condom, and let's be honest here: condoms are the least sexy thing about doin' it. No one fantasizes about dirty, sultry prophylactic-time (well now they do, Rule 34). We want it passionate and urgently momentous in its raw, honest, unprotected glory.

And what do we get? Fucking latex, a protective sheath. You're better than that, and I know it. Your tattoos say more about you than your blog. You're mixing a shot of impulsiveness and youth, beauty, love and regret, then choking it down, smashing the glass and dancing in its shards, with a flippant "I'm a dumb bitch" dismissal and a change of subject.

I want to hear about Ryan and Justin. I want to hear about the hasty girl of your past that morphed into this eyebrowless, very hot mother of two who chainsmokes and clouds herself in blasphemy and kitten rage. Prove you're eccentric by giving me ideas and perspectives I've never heard before. As of right now, after rummaging through all the "skanks" and "cunts," it's crystal to me: you're afraid of having no personality, and you cover it up by littering your posts with insults and curses.

Stop cocking around. Every once in awhile you show us a smidge of wisdom, a speck of uniqueness, but this bawdy, brash brat routine is old. As a society we've been watching ignorant, self-obsessed TV mutants get drunk and swear and slap each other over shitty lovers. Please don't add another lamewad to the mix. I get it though, because you're in it for the clicks. The internet is obviously a popularity contest for you and nothing else.

Those rare times you seem intelligent and hilariously creative, I smile in satisfaction. See, details are good, like calling your daughter 'Ladybug' in a line of dialogue instead of braying, "I call my daughter 'Ladybug!' I fucking rock!" You show that you have quirkish stories to tell. But then? Then you purposely cover it up with a spree of exclamations and pointless asides, which turns your writing into just about the most boringest thing ever.

As far as the template is concerned, I definitely like this header better than the mudflaps girl you sported a month ago, but I think you should minimize it and destroy the "click here to share" links. They're a trashy, whorish distraction, they take lightyears to load, and I have important cartoons to watch. And I can't deal with that crawling, epileptic banner circus, could you please do something about that?

Don't center the text of your posts. They're far easier to read earlier on in your blog when it's all flush left. Remember, some people are old. Of course I'm not, I'm an angry twenty-something who loves deadpan satire, loathes Nickelback (CB, you have the shittiest music taste ever - luvyabetch!) and slacks off at work to review blogs that want it from me and want it bad, but your sidebar hurts behind my eyes, like the entire eyeball and all the stringy nerves behind it are throbbing because there is so much fucking widgetty bannery stuff.

I gotta say though, I love how the 'Click Your Heels' button sends you home. Brilliant. Hopefully someday the other links will lead to relevant entries and maybe a personal profile instead of noxious self-promotion.

Immortally Insane

In a series of comedies, Spielberg portrayed us as vicious bloodthirsty predators bent upon carnage. I particularly liked the part when cousin Trevor pretended to be interested in that skinny kid, in an I-will-tear-from-limb-to-limb way. The human condition is pitiable as it is (No fangs? Enjoy spinach with those molars), but a lot of them seem to pile the crapfest on themselves. Primates revel in superlatives, even in situations that don't warrant them. I'm the most normal person, I'm RANDOM, I'm hilarious-really-hilarious and so on. You say you get antsy once a week? You must describe yourself as schizophrenic, then. Salaried, married with a kid? Clearly neurotic. I'm thrilled so many inmates in my neighbourhood mental institution are avid bloggers.

After digging through piles of blogs that try too hard, one can hardly be blamed for being cynical looking at "Crazy Mom Tats!" (thanks a lot Shiner). Crazy Friendly Mom? Implied spousal abuse? Joy. She's claims to have a "warped sense of humour" - but no tattoos. Super. James - scotch on the double, raw.

Easy stuff out of the way. Doesn't anyone read the goddamn FAQ anymore? Boring template, over-sized header, cluttered sidebar. Stop using that signature. I'm partial to the dropdown archives you sport, hang on to them. Here are some tutorials you (and oh-so-many-more) can use.

"Crazy Mom Tats!" started blogging less than a year ago. I like visiting the first post on a blog, it usually serves as a make-shift about me when a formal one is missing. I'm not a cat person (dogs are tastier), so I skipped right past that. Mommy blogger with 4 cats who lives in "La Maison du Psycho"? Must you make it so hard?

But what's this? CMT survived surgery on a non-malignant brain tumor. I guess when you get your cranium split open and brain tickled, your sense of humour changes for the better, and there's some evidence of that. There's more about her here. Southern Belle who can "drink, swear, tell dirty jokes, and play poker", and one of her kids is bi-polar. She's a doting mother, and I can see where she's coming from (Momma Raptor loves us a lot - the three she didn't feed on). CMT, combine that with your previous post, make it your "About me" and link it up.

There's a lot of posts about "tatting" and networking with other "tatters". Seeing as it is "psychotatter.blogspot", I can't say much about it. Not my blend of malt, but fun for your friends I'm sure. We're more interesting in writing in these parts, and lets talk about that. There are WAY too many full sized pictures in your posts. Spoken-style writing is not my thing. It gets annoying really fast, and can never be taken seriously.

For most part your blog reads like a day-to-day journal with the occasional "ha" moment. Paint a picture with words CMT, life's a lot more fun that way. Edit, edit and edit. Cut out dialogues, and the tiny unnecessary details. Stop using your blog as a picture wallet. I get it that you want to protect your kids' identities, but why bother with cropped photos at all? The only time I'll look at censored pictures is when they blur out the naughty bits in Japanese porn.

There are promising starts, but all those pictures make me think of you as that lady in the fast food line who won't stop yacking about her teenagers. Here's a thought experiment. Take any post, complete with pictures and captions. Cut the pictures, delete the captions and publish whatever's left. Voila, you just *wrote* your very first post!

Stop embedding pictures and videos of Mad men already, we get it that you like the show. Set yourself mental targets. If this post was half as long and twice as snarky, you'd move from the realm of mommy blogger with a hobby to family woman who writes. Stop indulging in memes, blog awards and other inane shit.

You have plenty to write about - that scar on your head, your creaking knees, diabetes, your job, your hobbies. Get cracking and concentrate on the writing. When you do, you're capable of stuff like this. I get the feeling you can write, and have great stories to share. You're a whole lot better than most mommy bloggers who turn up at I WILL FUCKING TEAR YOU APART.blogspot and expect 5 stars.

You could split what you have into two blogs. One for "tats" and that side of the world, and one for you. A brain-op survivor, family woman, southern gal - find that voice and write your ass off.

A purported "crazy mom" with hundreds of pictures on a cluttered blog would earn many a flaming finger. But for the odd redeeming tidbit, and for giving me some hope for mothers-who-blog I'll lower my claws and give you a "meh”

Maybe There Should Be A Consequence?

Folks, here's the deal right now. Completely unrelated to my part-time gig here at AAYSR, this has been a brutal two weeks. Long-nights-and-red-flags brutal. I mean, people have fucking died, man.

So if I come across as a bit curt or abrupt, I mean, more so than usual, don't take it personally.

Not this time.

But it does mean that I just need to cut to the friggin' chase here, and tell you about my friend Roschelle, and her Inconsequential Logic. (Side note: What the hell is that supposed to mean anyway? Are we supposed to dismiss you out of hand, because you're Inconsequential? Or are you being ironic?) Roschelle has been blogging a long time. A looooooong time. Since 2004, if you believe her.

Which you kind of have to. Because there's no way to get back all the way to the beginning to see when she began and what she sounded like way back then. Because she has no archive navigation at all. Other than this little roulette wheel type thingy where you click it and it serves up a random post. First couple days I was reviewing what she had to say, I thought that was kind of fun. But that fun wore off.

And I still couldn't get to the beginning.

As a reviewer, very little chaps my ass more than making getting the big picture a damn puzzle.

I pulled it up in Google Reader. Which took me back to October 11, 2009. In which I learned about splogs. Which I already knew about, I just didn't know they had a name. She then spends a lot of time blogging about blogging and social media. Not so much about content as much as about mechanics. In short, she came off sounding a bit like the back section of Reader's Digest, where they give you little bite sized tid-bits, but not full on articles.

And sure, that's probably someone's cup of treacle. Just not mine.

So, yeah, I skipped ahead, back to the present day. Luckily at some point along the way, she stopped writing exclusively about blogging and started writing about other stuff, but it still seemed like for every post that was what I'm in this whole blogging thing for, there were ten that were genuinely, to me, inconsequential, to use her own word.

Roschelle is pleasant enough. Does, generally, nothing particularly wrong. But I was not engaged. I was not especially amused. It wasn't a chore to read her writing, but it wasn't enrapturing either. I sort of felt like I was being held at arms length, away from the more challenging subject matter, the more humanizing material. And I'd say that's the one thing I'd suggest to Roschelle about her content -- bring more of herself to it.

I mean, seriously, she wrote an entire post about Father's day, doing a twist on it and stuff, without telling me anything about her, her mom, or her dad.

Unless that's not what she's in it for. All the clutter and gadgetry in her template does lead me to believe that she may be in it for the click-throughs and follows and all of that shit. But if she is trying to engage readers more, she should work on that opening up thing a bit more.

Oh, yeah, and about that template? Normally, I'm the guy who doesn't pay attention to that. As long as I can read the text and can find the navigation, I don't care what your template looks like. But right now, all the doodads and hoohahs all over this thing make it look like a teenage girl's bedroom. In cases like this, Roschelle, less is very much more.

All told, this whole thing adds up to this... One large, full-fledged "MEH."



I think you have it in you to get a star or two, but as the Smiths say, you just haven't earned it yet, baby.

Even Dead Stops Stinking Eventually

Well hello there. It seems someone left a door open, allowing me to poke around in the entrails of some blogs for a while. No matter, poking around in entrails is something I enjoy, rather a lot.

Now, I know this place has a URL of I will fucking tear you apart. But I'm nice, mostly. I don't do tearing apart - I much prefer to poke you in all your sensitive places with my rapier and leave you looking like a pin cushion. A bleeding, crying pin cushion.

Today's reviewee was picked on a whim of mine. A blog called Nomadic Celebrations? Oh no, Nomadic Cerebrations. I thought yes! There will be some traveling and some writing and it will be interesting.

No.

I've read here long enough that I should have been forewarned that the chaff far outweighs the corn.

Nomadic Celebrations just doesn't deliver, well, anything. There is a total of 8 posts on the entire blog and I read them all. You can't accuse me of not being thorough. Pradeepsinghraghav is the author of the blog and while I can't pronounce his name, it doesn't stop me wanting to throw sharp things at his head, because damn.

First things first: edit your damn posts. You've got capitals where they shouldn't be and simple typos make the whole blog look messy. The ellipses. Oh god, the ellipses. One ellipse is acceptable if you're trailing off a thought. This guy, he uses multiple ellipses at the end of every. single. fucking. sentence. Stop it! Just stop it now.

His last blog post was way back in October, before the blog just fizzled out. There is no About page and nothing to tell me why he started blogging. The sidebar, while it isn't cluttered by Internet standards, still has shit in it he doesn't need.

The actual posts though, once I got past the ellipses and the random capitalisation in the first few posts, they weren't that bad. He talks a bit about the Capitalism of India and a little about corruption, but there is nothing to draw you in and keep you reading. Obviously there wasn't even enough meat to his story to keep him interested enough to write it.

So here is some free advice to all bloggers, if you're not passionate about it, don't fucking write about it. If you don't live it, love it, breathe it, what makes you think you can write about it with enough passion to draw other people in? If you're not loving what you write about, your blog will just trail off, leaving the Internet to deal with yet another dead blog.

And everyone knows that dead blogs are no fun for poking at.

The ellipses and capitalisations made me want to give you this:







But instead I give you a Meh, because just meh. You can't hate a blog that's been dead for over 7 months. Even the stink has disappeared by that point.

Sometimes You Feel Like the Only One Laughing

I don't know if this is a picture of Jacob or not, but it's on his blog so I'm just going to go ahead and pretend it's him. He was kind enough to do a lovely little guest post for us, which is excellent, because (a) getting people to write reviews is harder than I thought, and (b) I like Jacob. Plus he keeps chickens in his backyard, so you know this guy's got shit to do that is way more lucrative than reviewing a blog with "Poo" in its title.


You know, when I was given a list of blogs to choose from, I didn't even bother to look at a single post before making my choice. The URL: Midgetmanofsteel.com. It was just too good to pass up. I just knew this would be a blog that would either be awesome or I could at least work up a good rant about it not living up to the potential of the title.

It turns out that the real name of the blog is Mental Poo, and I'm going to go ahead and establish a rule that blogs with titles referencing solid human waste are going to suck. Plus now, instead of imagining a tiny little Superman or the Bloodhound Gang's bodybuilding elf, I'm left wondering if "Midget Man of Steel" isn't a metaphor for the guy's penis. I've got nothing against genital references technically. In fact, a very long time ago the name of my blog was a veiled reference to masturbation, so I can't really make fun of those names. The name hasn't changed; I'm just lucky I veiled that shit so well that it could basically refer to anything I wanted. It'd be a little embarrassing to have a blog named after self-love at my age.

Getting back to Mental Poo, I'm not even trying to accuse the writer of having a small penis. That's not my style, at least not when I'm not trying to be ironic, and I'm not feeling very ironic at the moment. The guy's actually a better writer than "Mental Poo" would suggest. He's clear, concise and uses interesting word choice. This guy probably passed a few English classes in high school. He may have even earned an A in his freshman composition class in college if he was able to keep it serious long enough to churn out a good essay, but that's his problem. The guy is obviously going for the humor blog thing. I respect that. Sticking to a theme is hard and comedy is a risky endeavor. Believe me. I understand this. It's easier to build a following when the readers know exactly what to expect, but it really limits what you can write about. When you're successful, the result is beautiful. When you're not, the result is, well...

I'm not even going to say that this blog is all bad, it's just that he tries too hard. He's putting up a lot of posts, averaging about 20 a month for the past three years. That's a lot of stuff to write, and when you're always trying to make it funny, you're going to have a lot of flops unless you're some sort of idiot savant of original comedy. There's a reason a guy like Jay Leno gets stale and hackneyed after years of doing a comedy show five nights a week. I mean come on. Ruben Studdard Spider?

Basically, the writer reminds me of a guy I lived with for a while in college. He seemed to live on a diet of Papa John's pizza and was a nearly constant font of cheesy jokes. In person, I'm okay with this, but in a blog it's not exactly going to earn a spot in my Google Reader list.

As for the design aspects of the blog, that's not my cup of tea, exactly. I'm a writer, not a designer. My own blog design is rather utilitarian. Mental Poo's format is one of Blogger's generic templates with some moderate customization. I do have enough of a designbackground to know that the stuff in the side bar is just excessive. A lot of it could just be taken out and either trashed entirely or just moved somewhere else on the site. The archives could be collapsed into a drop down box to clean up that area, but honestly, I'd read the ugliest blog in the world (as long as it was legible) if the posts were worth reading. My biggest piece of advice is to just slow your roll. Cut down on the frequency of your posting, take a little time to polish your pieces, and only post when the work deserves it. The shotgun approach works for some things, but in a blog it makes the reader sift through too much crap to be able to enjoy the stuff you actually get right.

Rating: A meh because I just don't want to read your posts and a Dirty Jay Leno because I think you make Conan O'Brien cry.











(Hey, it's Shiner. So Jacob asked for a "Dirty Jay Leno" but I only have MS Paint here at work, so he just kind of looks like the guy on the Pringles cans. Sor.)