I wrote this as a counter to one of the most unintentionaly hilarious, misguided, and pretentious pieces of old bollocks it has ever been my misfortune to encounter in the language of Shakespeare.
The Art of Blogging by Danny SoZ
1: Write any old shit
2: Visit other blogs containing shit just as bad, or even worse, than your own literary effluent
3: Lavish the ‘writer’ with praise, so risibly over-the-top, they will begin to think you’re in the throes of orgasm
4: Wait a few hours for reciprocal bullshit
THE END
Danny Soz is the managing editor of The Dunning-Kruger Syndrome Gazette
Lance walks into his ‘physic’ therapist’s office and slumps down…
“Hello” too effusive psychotherapist says. “And how are WE today?” “Shitty,” I answer.
“Oh no!!” he says. “We can never feel ‘shitty’, as you say. WE are always ‘happy’.”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“Mister Marcom. WE do not talk this Way.”
“Fuck you Doc, I talk this way AND I am paying you so I CAN talk this way.”
“OK, why then are you “shitty” as you call it?”
Leaning back… wondering how long this court – ordered bullshit must go on, I decide to hit him with it:
“I am shitty ‘cause I have written some good shit on my blog and no one is reading it.”
“Please do go on.”
“Well… there is that one about Southpark”
“You mean J.R.’s ranch?”
“Do you have a degree, Doc?”
“Of course, right over there on the wall, see it?”
“What’s it in, your degree?”
“Phycology.”
“Yeah, guess that makes some sense; knew it wasn’t in Pop Culture, Pops.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Never mind.”
“Let us get back to your problem and away from my credentials, shall we? No one reads your ‘shit’, but why?”
“‘t-l-d-r’ in the vernacular.”
“Tee el dee r’? I’m afraid I do not understand your meaning here.”
“’Too Long; Didn’t Read’ Asshole.”
“Mister Marcom, I must implore you not to continue to abuse me with such language; I am merely attempting to help you here. Why is it too long? Do you hate your mother?”
“Well, it took days and days to write… And who ARE you? Do you even know what it is ‘to write’?”
“Let us focus on ‘your problem.’ shall we?”
“Doc, let us focus on yours: I don’t want to be here and THAT is YOUR problem. I just want folks to read my shit.”
“I cannot help you there, Son. Perhaps though if I may proffer a suggestion?”
“Sure. Fire away.”
“Write some better ‘shit’, as you call it.”
It is when you go to flush the toilet and that handle snarls back at you, rather limp-wrist’d, as if to say,
“Not tonight Asshole. Go back to sleep.”
(Now, in some truth, I could probably improve this post. For example: I should not have referenced ‘limp wrists”. In truth, y’all know how it is when you go to flush that toilet and there just ain’t no resistance. “Limp Wrists’ was just about all I could manage at the time of publishing…. (Isn’t that funny? Like I am a fucking news paper?) Dead-lines!
Some one shoot me!
(Make it quake! Head Shot! Right thru the mouth–or better…the mouse.)
God and some foll’ers will thank you.
Foretelling ‘Foreboding’ (See? I tend to edit as as I go… My father once tole me, “Lance! Enuff! Enough! It takes an editor to be smart; that is why we make more monies.”) some deep sea-toilet trolling (trolling?) diving to fix.
Yeah…
Really?
Don’t think so.
Maybe tomorrow…
(There are three (other) toilets in this ‘Mouse-House’)
“So, fuck off.”
(My toilet did not reply)
Yes, I talk to my toilet… don’t we all?
“Take your hand off that mouse Mister! Don’t make me come over there.”
“Yessir! Please don’t shoot me; I’m just the piano-player.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me. What do you think, Jim?”
“Yeah. Bullshit. Shoot him.”
“OK.”
Bang! Bang!
“He gone.”
(Sorry, Si Robertson; some of this … this is probably out-of-context)
Then again…
Maybe not.
We will not even begin to speak about your brother.
Damnit! I miss Christopher Hitchens!
Even more embarrassing:
You know the toilet is broke dick dog.
Yet…
You still try to ‘visit.’
And it takes three tries to get into the door.
(Yet, it is a really small door–just sayin’– and not so easily navigated, drunk nor sober)
Only to be so disappointed (yet again) over the the whole toilet experience.
OK.
Fine!
Resist?
Naw!
Below, please discover Lenny’s take on toilet-training.
(and of course: entertaining, or reasonable facsimile)
For reasons I’d rather not disclose, but numero one’oh is detailed below:
Anyway, I grew weary of reading about how much Jesus loves me, how I need to say ‘amen’ if I agree all the time. (They never tell ya what exactly to say when you do NOT agree), et cetera, et al. So… I just say what I feel, which generally gets me into trouble.
So.. I said some evil things.
Have since apologized.
Been offered a promise of a promise back in Iraq (rhymes, don’t it?)
I will go there.
In’shall’allah
–Peace
(Lance)
The point of this post is thus:
I am back on FB; for whatever good that might mean. (or not mean)
-L
“Is one the moon, Dear Clown, tied to a string for me?”
(He tried, but he could not get it down)
And yes: I have been in – love with Joni Mitchell for neigh onto forty year here.
Oh! And I love Emmy Lou… Too!
And.. Frank Zappa, and Tom Waits, and, Carly Simon, AndLenny Bruce, and… I suppose my love comes cheap.
