But almost overnight, I fell into a crowd of bloggers with the tasteless, vulgar and sometimes criminal sense of humor I express in my own blog. And although the thought of meeting some of you in person frightens me, I consider each of you my friend. Blogger is home to me now, except when I try to leave a comment, when it feels like a layer of Dante's Inferno mixed with an attack of kidney stones.
I've noticed our posts come in two styles. The first style, the essay, is a romantic interlude. First you ply your date with chivalry, sophistication, fine dining, posh entertainment, a tender kiss betwixt the city lights and the moon. Things unfold in timely measure. The romance builds. It begins in sublty and explodes with the passion of a firework Grand Finale. The essay makes love to the reader.
The second style, the list, is the cheap blowjob through the glory hole in a Denny's restroom. It's the quicky through the zipper. It's the booze-fueled fuck in the park before the cops flashlight your bare ass and bust you for public indecency. There's no romance. No subltly. No seduction scene. It's cheap, raunchy junk food. One doesn't bother to seduce the reader with delicacy and forthought. You just unzip your fly and say "Suck on this, bitch. It's cherry flavored."
Of course, both are necessary for a blog to thrive. We all want and need romance. And we all crave, from time to time, a cheap, dirty fuck with a filthy whore. If we're lucky, we find both in the same person (or blog).
I remind myself of this each time I open a new post. I ask myself what my my readers crave this day. In fact, I'm wondering right now. Ah, yes. I know. You want it cheap and dirty. You little whore/sick bastard. Alright, Daddy's got what you need:
- True Story: I saw a lady fall down and break her hip in a SAFEWAY parking lot. I found it ironic. The good news was that she was able to find canned peaches at the unbeatable price of 3 for $1.
- Kids are great as long as you don't mind a layer of filth round the house about 3 feet from the ground, and as long as you don't mind missing the dialogue to your favorite sit-coms.
- First, we had Nixon. He lied. Then we had Clinton. He smoked pot. Now, we've got Bush, who did cocaine. Who's next? A public masturbator who shoots heroine and stage-dives into a wading pool of beer? I hope so.
- I think it's foolish for ducks to form the pattern of an arrow when they fly. It just gives hunters a direction to point their guns.
- Have you ever noticed how hairy Robin Williams is? If fur is murder, this guy is Ghangis fuckin Khan.
- I know skyscrapers are cool. But to God, they look like cookie crumbs on a placemat.
- Dotting your i's and crossing your t's takes on a whole new meaning when you're writing your name in the snow with your own urine.
- Some people ask, "What would Jesus do?" They don't realize that sometimes, the answer to that question is to have God exact revenge on the asshole who just pissed you off.
- What's real about reality programmig? In real life, nobody gives a shit what you're wearing, what you're doing, who you're screwing, or when you're pooing.
- I feel sorry for ant eaters. We named them for what they eat. We didn't do that with any other animal: birds aren't "worm eaters." Dogs aren't "crap eaters," and 14 year-old boys aren't "Slim Jim Eaters."
- I always hated candy corns, but I've recently discovered that I like the white tips and the orange bottoms. It's the yellow center that ruins everything. So I bite of the top and bottom and toss the yellow center back in the bowl. The people I work with ask me not to do that. Screw them.
- How come alcohol makes ugly girls look pretty, yet everything else my life still looks crappy no matter how much I drink?
- I think it would be funny if a policeman mistook his pistol for his radar gun, as long as the guy in the car he was clocking was a real jerk.
- Some people want to have their cake and eat it, too. I just want to see less candles on it for my birthday.
- The funny thing about your job is that you spend a week praying to God that they hire you, and the rest of your life dreading showing up in the morning. So hearing "you're hired," is both the best and the worst news you can hear.
- The only two times I consult the workplace calendar is to figure out when the next payday is, and to calculate when I can use my next sick day without catching heat from HR.
- I'm doing a study that proves radio DJ suicide rates rose 30% during the Michael Bolton years. Look for it in next month's Crappy Chick Music Magazine.