A few weeks ago I was experiencing a blog identity crisis and announced that I would be undergoing a sex change. I mean a name change. Since then, amid all of your incredibly cool suggestions, and all of the dumbass names that I came up with myself, I still haven’t decided on one.
My indecisiveness leads me to believe one of two things: 1.) I’m not incorporating enough essential fatty oils into my diet, or 2.) I’m pregnant.
All that aside, I made a promise that I intend to keep and I’m gonna make good on it today. But I’m changing the rules up a bit; instead of blabbing on and on about one person, one winner, I’m about to throw a bunch of thick-skinned blogger buddies of mine onto the barbecue.
Congratulations. You’re all winners of the Name Adam’s Dumb Blog Contest!
Here’s how the whole thing’s gonna play out: I rip you to pieces, you cry for a few minutes, then you send me an anonymous death threat or a horse head, then we hug and makeup, and then you drop me a PayPal contribution for publicizing your blog! I just threw that last part in there. It’s not mandatory.
The Premise of the Roast:
I have a couple of really sharp computer geek friends that figured out a way to reverse the search term feed. I know who used what search terms to find my blog, and today I’m gonna let the dirty little kitty out of the bag. I’ll also try my best to address your long-forgotten queries. Of course I’m making all this shit up right now, but just play along.
So sit back, relax, crack a beer, throw some ABBA on the stereo, and soak up the sweet insults of the First Inaugural Roast.
Forgive me in advance.
It sounds like someone has been bumpin’ plugs with some dirty strange if you know what I’m sayin’. I don’t think those bumps are from your highly unfashionable, nylon runner shorts; you may well have caught your first raging case of gonorrhea. Well, you could easily be a repeat recipient of the crotch-critters, but who am I to judge? Merbear, head to your nearest clinic. Stat. And stay away from public restrooms in the meantime.
Blogger: Lady Anonymous: Blog Title: Alien Red Queen
Search Terms: “My boa constrictor makes a farting sound out of her mouth.”
You know, you always struck me as one of those chicks that shows up to some really elaborate wedding sporting shredded fishnets, combat boots, miscellaneous spiked-jewelry, and fucking purple hair. Queen of the damned. I can picture you all gothed-out, holding a one-sided debate with Ed the bartender about the current political climate in Sudan. Ed’s not listening. He’s staring at your eyeliner. And your hooters. Oh, and by the way, who buys a boa constrictor?
Which part is the fantasy here: the steamy sex scene with your interviewer, or actually finding an interview? I just consulted with my magic eight ball to determine the likelihood of either and here’s what it said: Fat Chance.
Blogger: Becca Blog Title: 25 to Fly
Search Terms: “My masterpiece liquor dispenser is broken how do you fix?”
I think the hair dye is starting to leach into your grey matter, darling. Anyone that can’t tell the difference between a hammer and a band saw should either call a handyman or toss it in the garbage. If you don’t heed my advice, you might not have any fingers left for me to put a ring onto.
Oh god, first Hasselhoff and now this tool? So Jen, if he did smoke, would that tarnish his otherwise flawless character? His whiny voice, corny hairdo, and the fact that he was kind of married to Helen Hunt doesn’t factor in? If he does smoke that would be the only cool thing about him (Don’t listen to me, kids. And stay in school). He strikes me as a Virginia Slims kinda guy anyways, which totally kills all that. You’re too uptight, Jen. Drink a fucking beer.
Blogger: Cathy Ulrich Blog Title: Large Self
Search terms: “Steven Segal Spine Punch.”
When Cathy’s not busy taking pictures of flowers and writing inspirational poetry, she’s reading up on how to perform violent Judo take-downs. I’m making a point to tread lightly here. If I say something stupid and we happen to cross paths in the future, chances are likely that I could end up in the back of a meat wagon with a dislocated head, courtesy of Dr. Ulrich. You look very lovely today, Cathy. Lovely indeed.
That’s a dump truck full of bullshit. You’re probably not aware of this, but we have a mutual friend, Amy. I know for a fact that you’ve been quarantined on drinking holiday weekends on more than one occasion. I also know about your lighter trick performance back in college. Video Proof: click here.
Blogger: Calahan Blog Title: B.L.O.G.
Search Terms: “One seated band wagon.”
Mike, your hair is definitely riding a one-seated band wagon. Ditch the mousse. Helmet hair hasn’t been in style since the 50’s. Neither has your blog. It’s gotta be difficult finding a jug of Drain-o in your homentown with you living in it. I can’t even imagine how many gallons a week it requires to keep your shower water from backing up because of all the fucking hair product you stuff into your plumbing. B.L.O.G: (B)uys (L)ots (O)f (G)el
Blogger: Madame Weebles Blog Title: Fear No Weebles
Search Terms: “Offended you are Yoda.”
Star Wars Nerds…
Don’t worry, Weebles, Yoda not I am. Or something like that. If it wasn’t for all of the nauseating publicity that you fan geeks get at these conventions with your themed weddings and Vader-humping get-ups, I wouldn’t even know what the hell a Yoda was…
Blogger: Edward Hotspur Blog Title: Edward Hotspur Search Terms: “I’m feeling verklempt.”
Oh stop crying, Eddie. This Romantic Monday stuff is elevating your estrogen levels. That makes me weepy. Listen, Ed, if you don’t start focusing more on testosterone-boosting activities like beer curling, hammer throwing, and chain saw woodcarving, you might start growing breasts soon. So bottoms up. Now go buy a chainsaw and start practicing. Start with something simple: a carving of Mt. Rushmore.
Blogger: Lillian Blog Title: High, High, Higher!
Search Terms: “there are already so many good blogs”
Keep practicing, Lillian. One day you’ll be this good. No I’m just kidding. That’ll never happen. Freshly Pressed twice you say? The WordPress editors were clearly drunk. Both days.
Blogger: “Yo.” Blog Title: Tales from the Motherland
Search Terms: “Blog straight from the gut bitches”
I know I wasn’t supposed to do this, and I won’t. However, I will say that your infatuation with the Adam and Becca show is now bordering on Glen Close in the movie, Fatal Attraction. Just a heads up, I’m filing a restraining order against you next Wednesday. Lawyer up, you nut.
Blogger: Pixie girl Blog Title: Exploring Pixie
Search Terms: ”Outdated Halloween Outfits.”
I see you took some time out of your grueling piano practice schedule, which probably consists of Chopsticks and the first five notes of the Sesame Street Theme Song, in order to update your wardrobe. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re a Walmartian. Look, there goes Pixie Girl with her little fairy wings strapped to her back, floating aimlessly down the dairy isle in search of a loaf of bread. Clearly your school investments did jack shit to improve your financial situation. Or for that matter, your IQ.
Blogger: John Blog Title: Society Red
Search Terms: “I’m really lucky I took my hidden cam that day, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to shoot this hottie’s sexy big ass in grey butt pants.”
It’s clear now why you transitioned from construction worker to massage therapist: you’re a pervert. I’m starting to wonder if Society Red is a secret voyeur cult. I got my eye on you, Grandmaster John. I’m sure you got your eye on me too. And anyone wearing grey butt pants.
Blogger: Amber Blog Title: Lady lovely Blogger
Search Terms: “I’m warming my lips.”
Ok, I’m just gonna say it: I think you’re one of those anonymous hardcore sex bloggers. The gushy-poetry thing is just a fluffy diversion. Fess up. You’re a closet sex addict. And hey, since your lips are good and warm right now, why don’t you put them to good use? Wait, let me bend over first.
Blogger: Annonymous Hornball Blog Title: Fat Bottom Girl Said What
Search Terms: “Demonstrations on how to shave my pubis and cookie for my man.”
Where would you even find the time to shave your cookie? It seems like most of your free time is spent guzzling cheap beer and Facebook stalking all the guys that dumped your crazy ass after one date. The rest of your time is spent crying about it on WordPress. I was picturing an intimate dinner date with you just now and it went something like this: “Check please.”
Whew, that was fun!
You know, when I scroll through that list of mugshots, I don’t just see a collection of random people that willingly subjected themselves to public humiliation, I see a list of some of my absolute favorite blogger friends. Not only are all you people really good at your crafts, but you’re also good at inspiring, motivating, and encouraging others that share the same passion.
Speaking personally, at one point or another you’ve all helped prop me up during the dark times, flattered or complimented me when I sucked, encouraged me to keep writing when I wanted to quit, and inspired me when I didn’t have anything left in the tank.
Not only have you all played a part in the evolution of this dumb blog, but more importantly, you’ve inspired a very personal evolution. Nowhere else will I ever find this much heartfelt support for a silly pipe dream of mine. I can count the people on one hand in real life that support my writing. But here is different. I’d need a lot more hands. \m/
And lastly, I wanted to make honorable mention of one person in particular on the list: Jules, the author of the blog, McCrabass. Thank you for all your help outside the blogosphere. You’re an immense talent and a very gifted mind. Thanks for taking the time to point me in a direction. You have a big heart. I’m still your number one fan.
I wish I could have included everyone, but damn, this took a long time to put together. Thank you all again for being good sports. And thank you to everyone else not mentioned here that I interact with regularly. You’re all very much loved and appreciated. We’ll see where this whole thing goes.
Sorry for being a dick.
Thanks for your contributions:
- Jean, author of Wholey Jeans
- Tracy, author of, um, Tracy Fulks
- Sara, author of Laments and Lullabies
- Jenn, author of Jenn’s Midlife Crisis
- Vanessa-Jane, author of Vanessa-Jane Chapman
- Mystery Lady, author of Happy Zinny
- Mystery Lady #2, author of Words Fall From My Eyes
Feel free to test the thickness of my skin in the comment section.
- Happy Blogging \m/
- My Right to Bitch Facts and Fallacies (righttobitch.com)
- What Kind of Blogger Are You? 7 Different Blogger Types Explained. (zemanta.com)
- Bloggedy Blog Blog Blog (jessessential.com)
I’ve been absent for awhile. Not just from the blogging world, but from the planet Earth.
Maybe preoccupied is a better word, and it’s all because of a trip I took recently down to Lafayette, Louisiana…to go on a date. I know. I’m sure a lot of words come to mind: ballsy, desperate, detached, or possibly even clinically nuts.
Becca, the author of 25 to fly, and myself have been communicating via Skype and email for the past few months now, and after a whole bunch of scenario planning, discussing potential meetup cities, and buying seven hundred dollar plane tickets that I couldn’t use, I finally decided to swallow my uncertainty about all of it, pack my bags, and head due South for The Bayou.
It took me roughly 21 hours to get there by car from Detroit, with a layover in Tennessee. I found that ten hours on the road flying solo is about all I can physically and mentally handle. It’s extremely tough on the body and mind, for me, anyways. But I’m kind of a wuss like that.
Being that far from a familiar lifeline is an unsettling thought, and with over twenty hours to sit and ponder, it’s impossible for it to not cross your mind at some point. What-if scenarios will drive you into a panic if you let ‘em. Stop for a minute and think about the idea of being stranded in the middle of the country, alone.
Toledo, Cincinnati, Louisville, Nashville, Memphis, Jackson, and Baton Rouge were the milestone cities. With crossed eyes and sweaty palms, I anxiously watched the minutes crawl by, whispering to myself the mantra: “just get to the next big city.” After reaching one, another couple hundred miles of open highway to sit and think some more.
I decided to stop just South of Louisville on the way down to clear my head. I was starting to feel overwhelmed by all of it, and I even entertained the thought of turning around. I thought better of it, and after gathering my wits, I bit my tongue and got back on the highway.
I rolled into a small town in Tennessee called Hurricane Mills at about 7pm that first night. It was time to unwind. According to the yammering twang at the counter, some famous country star was born a couple miles up the road. I don’t recall the name. The only thought on my mind at the time was, “no offense ma’am, but I could give a flying fuck. Now please give me my motel key.” Stereotypical small-towners…
It wasn’t a particularly luxurious room by any stretch, and to ice the cake, the mini fridge sounded like a time bomb. All night long: click, click, click, click, click, click…By 4 am I nearly lost my mind. I decided to pull the plug. The trade-off for a good nights rest? All the food I’d brought spoiled by morning. Fuck. Back on the road.
Truck traffic is horrid through Kentucky and Tennessee, and getting stuck behind a trailer blockade is probably the most nerve-racking part of the drive. Trailers take turns passing each other down the stretch, but never with any real sense of urgency. Sometimes it would take up to five miles for a truck to finally merge out of the fast lane - a far cry from traveling on any given Michigan highway.
The second leg of the trip was longer than the first. Mississippi is nothing but a long stretch of highway with few places to stop. After swinging through Jackson, Louisiana was only about an hour away. It’s a noticeable transition upon entering. For as far away from home as I’d traveled, it felt surprisingly familiar.
The Baton Rouge Bridge spanning the mighty Mississippi River is an impressive structure. And large. (That’s what she said.) If you don’t like bridges, bring your meds, because after that doozy, expect to spend about thirty miles on the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge.
The last couple hours were inspired by adrenaline and heavy metal. Full steam ahead. And then suddenly, Bam! Everything came to a halt. There was a car fire in the middle of the expressway that shut down both lanes. Nobody was moving and there was no place to turn around. Even if I did, I had no idea of any alternate routes.
After what felt like days, the blockade finally loosened. Petal to the floor. That’s when I started to think about the greeting part. You know, actually meeting Becca for the first time. I mean, how do we do this? Do we shake hands? Do we hug? Do we high five and shotgun a beer? Oh, right, beer. Yes, that sounds like a great idea right now.
I finally arrived in Lafayette at around 6PM that second day. What a beautiful compound. (I think Becca is secretly sitting on some cash-ola.) It looked like a hotel resort from the front; a multi-level apartment complex with boutique-style storefronts on the lower level, and a reflection pond and walking path for the residents.
I hadn’t eaten much that day and was almost through a second pack of smokes. I got out of the car on two shaky legs, still lost in thought, and stumbled around the resort trying to reach her by phone. No answer. Dial again. No answer. What the? I come all this way and she’s dodging me? Luckily, I remembered I had the apartment number on my phone log.
I walked up the steps, excited, pprehensive, and breathing heavily from the endless flight of stairs. When I arrived at the door, it was slightly propped open. Deep breath. A creative knock…
The door opened slowly, and low and behold, before me stood the real Becca. The final puzzle piece. Not an email message, not a Skype image or a picture – the real Becca. It was a surreal moment for both of us. We hugged each other and then sort of awkward silence followed. We were both a bit shell-shocked and reality immediately set in. What the hell did we just do? We’re basically complete strangers. This was the first time we’d ever met face to face and we’re about to spend a long weekend together.
Quiz question: Who is crazier?
A.) the guy that drove twenty one hours to go on a date.
B.) the girl who invited a potential rapist/nut job/ax murderer into her apartment for a long weekend.
C.) all of the above.
The answer is C. All of the above.
Ok, put all that crap aside. It was time to start warming up. The clock was ticking and we had a lot to talk about: drumming, video projects, astrology, marriage plans, cats – in no particular order. But, first things first: I needed to shave, brush my teeth, and put on a shirt that didn’t smell like a dog fart. Oh, and beer? Yes, please. After feeling semi-human again, and slightly buzzed, we ordered a pizza from the restaurant downstairs and started pounding beers like we were in high school again. Note: for a 5’4″, small-framed chick, the girl can put em’ back.
The following night Becca introduced me to a local delicacy that I’d never tried before: Crawfish. If you ever visit, take my advice, don’t refer to them as Crayfish. Those crazy bastards down there will skin you alive and hang you in a smoker someplace if you insult their prized dish like that. Anyways, now is the time of year that they’re in season, and according to her, they sell a shit ton of ‘em. There are all kinds of roadside shacks and restaurants everywhere selling bags of the tasty little critters.
Ten pounds is a pretty typical amount for two people to share. It sounds like a lot, but after you dismember them and toss away half the body, the only thing that’s left is a piece of tail meat the size of a grub. It was pretty obvious who the out-of-towner was during the crawfish-peeling tutorial. Becca on the other hand? Pro-level.
The night after, we went out to a local bar for a greasy patio burger and more beer. There was a band playing covers that evening. I remember having a strong déjà vu moment while I was walking around the joint. Apparently, the bartender was also having an out-of-body experience; she mistook me for some dude in the band (I get that a lot) and put my burger next to the stage for a half hour. By the time I got it, it was cold to the touch, but the gallon of Tabasco that it was slathered in more than compensated. Everything those folks eat down there is spicy. I can dig that. We shot some pool and I didn’t even have to let her win. The chick’s a shark.
Is there anything this woman can’t do? I’m getting to that part…
Throughout the trip I taught her various drum sticking patterns, one of them being the Tom solo in that 60′s surfer song, Wipeout. Everyday she’d sit on the couch or balcony, biting her tongue with her lips, lost in her head. Over and over she’d practice the pattern. Like a machine: mess up, shake her head, try again. It was fun to watch. She’s just about got it.
We stopped in at a friend’s house nearby one evening to listen to hippy music and have ourselves a jam session. The owner of the house, Chris, stopped playing his guitar shortly after I sat in. I’d like to think that it’s because I’m so god damn good, but he probably just had bad gas or something like that. After a few beers and some porch monkey conversation, we decided to turn in for the night. Sorry for showing you up bro, honestly. \m/
We spent one afternoon messing around with another mutual obsession of ours: corny videos. I introduced her to a video editing program awhile back, and since then, she’s become a regular Spielberg. Becca’s a fast learner when it comes to pretty much everything. Sometimes I feel like Forrest Gump when I’m around her. That’s all I have to say about that.
Check out the video here: Shitty Clones on Hashtags
The last night was probably the best night. Bittersweet. We were finally starting to feel comfortable with each other, and after several days of eating nothing but pretzels, coffee, and beer, our appetites finally came back.
Quiz Question: How does Becca like her steak cooked?
A.) Burnt to a crisp.
B.) Just a little Pink, please.
C.) Don’t bother cooking it.
D.) Red meat? Sorry dude, I’m a vegan.
The answer is C. Don’t bother cooking it.
So let’s recap: she shoots whiskey, she’s a pool shark, she plays the drums, she drives an off road vehicle (like a maniac), and now I find out that she eats her steak nearly rare? Wtf. Stop making me look like such a pussy all the time. Man Card revoked.
Needless to say, it was really hard to leave that following morning. After saying our goodbyes, I watched her as she slowly clicked down the stairs, got into her car, and drove off into the hazy Louisiana horizon. Soon after she left, she became that same figment of my imagination that she’d been just a week before. I had to pinch myself. Did it really happen, or was it all just a dream?
If it in fact did happen, then thank you for your incredible Southern Hospitality, Ms Rebecca Ann Cord. You’re one of the most considerate, sweet, charming, and genuine people I’ve ever met. You’re better than a cold beer and a head full of Led Zeppelin on a warm summer day.
That’s sayin’ a lot.
- Happy Blogging (in the Bayou) \m/
P.S. If you ever wanna see Jack the Cat again, wire transfer me $500 U.S. dollars by Friday. He said you better do it.
- A Visit To Becca and Miss Four Eyes. (And March Break Madness Has Truly Begun!) (youvebeenhooked.wordpress.com)
- Right on Schedule (25tofly.com)
- Adam and Becca’s Valentine’s Day Bash – Video Blog (righttobitch.com)
Geez, I take a couple days off and people start sending me emails asking if I’m dead or something. Relax, I’m alive, and I also have good news!
Despite the hiatus, there’s been no loafin’ around during the past week. I’ve been busy making plans for the biggest, baddest, hottest, virtual Valentine’s date of my life with the very lovely, and soon to be famous, Becca from 25 to Fly.
Was that a run on sentence?
Who cares. Eat it, grammar snobs. I got bigger things to worry about than indefinite pronouns and fucking subordinating conjunctions. I don’t even know what those two things are either. I looked them up online. They sounded cool…
Anyways, what was I talking about?
Oh yeah, back to the pitch! I promised that this was gonna be a big year, and I’m following through on that promise this Thursday, Valentine’s Day. For the first time in the brief history of My Right to Bitch, not only will I not have a single thing to bitch about, but I’ll also be dropping the first ever video log! You’ll finally get to check out the Heavy Metal Master of this domain in live, technicolor format! (Did you catch the third person usage, grammar snobs?)
Also, drop by tomorrow for an awesome guest post by the infamous Single Girl Blogging. If you’ve never heard of her then you’ve been living in your sock drawer. This chick is the Chelsea Lately of the blogging world (god that sounds dorky) and always a riot. I wonder if she’s got any good advice out there for all the single folks this Valentine’s Day? I guess you’ll just have to wait and see!
-Happy Blogging Rock Stars \m/
First of all, Fuck you for making me get out of bed before 3pm on a Sunday *morning to say Happy Birthday. Second, I don’t work well under pressure. You gotta tell me these things sooner. I didn’t even know Canadians celebrated birthdays until today.
I’ve been running around town all morning trying to find a keg of bubbly water, a hot tray of Poutine, and an embroidery shop. This ain’t the first party I’ve planned, but it’s probably the most challenging thus far. You have very *specific tastes, my friend — like an emperor or something.
To add to the last minute stress, the guy at the embroidery shop was being a dickhead. He was giving me a hard time about using the number 9. I don’t know what the hell his problem was, but according to him, some Richard dude used to wear it. Never heard of the guy…
If it wasn’t for your Birthday, Eric, January would be a complete waste of a month. As a matter of fact, I was considering petitioning to have it removed from the calendar altogether. I think it’s worth keeping now. The month of January will hereby be dedicated to your life and living legendness.
You and your ego, my friend, are a seemingly bottomless well of creative ideas, and you’re doing a fine job of making the rest of us look like a bunch of slack-off assholes. You and your hoighty toighty blogroll extravaganzas, Monty Python-ish fanclubs, photo-shopping, Dear Abby Advice Columns, Twitter-ing with the fucking CEO of WordPress…
A very Happy Birthday to you, Monsieur Eric! And a bitchin’ Birthday salute!!
- Le Birthday Clown (wordsandotherthings.wordpress.com)
- Le Clown and Nancy Drew Walk into a Bar… (lamentsandlullabies.wordpress.com)
- Can Clowns Hire Clowns for Their Birthday Parties? (25tofly.com)
I’m so excited right now. I can barely contain myself.
Originally, I wasn’t even gonna post anything for the New Year, and then I thought: how could I pass on the perfect opportunity to recap, rock out, spread some lovin’ butter, and announce all of the cool shit that I have planned for 2013?
Ready. Set. Launch.
2012: The Year of the Bitcher
First off, this has been such an incredible past four months. Getting all of this stuff out of my head and onto paper has been nothing short of orgasmic. What a silly word. Whatever. Creative writing is something that I’ve always wanted to do in one capacity or another, but I never really had the discipline or support that I would have liked in order to pursue it. It’s hard to imagine that only three posts into it I almost quit.
…I’m glad I didn’t.
I owe it to all of you insanely cool people that have jumped on board and backed me up. You’ve stood behind me each and every wacky post. I’ve never in my life had this kind of unconditional support. Ever. I’m getting a bit choked up.
No. Fuck that. Hold it in.
I know it sounds kind of cheese, but it’s the truth. Your readership, participation, and encouragement have inspired me in ways greater than you’ll ever know, and it’s you that continues to inspire the evolution of this raging monster that I call: MY RIGHT TO BITCH.
I don’t just write for me. That would be boring as hell if it were the only reason. It’s not interactive that way.
I write for you, too, and that’s why I love blogging. It doesn’t just get put into a drawer in some shitty, pleather-bound journal — it gets launched into cyber space. And after it goes live, it becomes a full-contact sport. Anything goes.
Every time I send something out there, within minutes, you guys are already chewing it up, twisting it, breaking it, spinning it, smashing it, lighting it on fire, and barfing it back onto my screen. That’s the coolest part for me. That’s the pay off. To put time into something that I love so much, and to have it all come back to me like that makes me want to keep doing it.
And for all that, I love you. There. I said it.
The Awards Shit Show
Thanks to all the people that went out of their way to drop an award off. I don’t get into all of the question answering stuff, but I greatly appreciate the recognition. If you nominated me for an award over the past month, check out the Trophies and Stuff tab, and scroll to the bottom of the page. There’s a little thank you note for each one of you guys. I can’t promise that it’ll be a love letter. You know me. I also included a link back to your page as well. Thank you.
Now please don’t send me any more fucking homework assignments.
Post of the Week
You probably noticed in the sidebar an image with the title: Post of the Week. There’s also a new tab at the top of the screen with the same header. This is a new, totally rad thing that I’m gonna be doing from now on. Fuck being Freshly Pressed. Post of the Week is way cooler.
Every week, as usual, I’ll be trolling the blogosphere in hot pursuit of one standout post – one that I think deserves to be read and recognized. There are no genre limitations. Check back often. Whether you’re here or not, I’ll be sure to let you know if you got picked.
See, this is just another one of those reasons why I should be getting a Christmas Card from you.
The Bitchin’ Blogroll
The Blogroll is finally up. Scroll to the bottom of the sidebar. Hopefully I didn’t make any glaring mistakes or leave anyone out. Call me out on it if I did. After all this stuff my brain is officially toast — mistakes are likely.
It’s kinda like checking to see if you made the basketball team, isn’t it? Many more to follow…
Guest Panel Shenanigans
Now for the big announcement. This is going to be off-the-hook. At the top of the screen you’ll see another new tab titled: Join the Guest Panel. Click it.
Read it. Sign up.
Don’t be intimidated.
I’m gonna need some help throughout the coming year. I’m putting together a series of Blogger Panels that will become part of some interactive blog ideas I have in the hopper. I can’t go into details. It’s top secret for the time being, so don’t ask me to tell you about it. If I told you I’d have to kill you. Well, maybe not that extreme. But I’d definitely have to break your fingers.
All *auditions* need to be submitted in the comment section under the Join the Guest Panel tab at the top of the screen. Please. Keep this organized. I’m sitting on top of Mt. Laundry right now. Make it easy for me.
Lastly, a few personal shout outs: thank you to The Cheeky Diva for her help in getting me FP’d (sounds dirty), and to Le Clown for the guest blogging opportunities on both Black Box Warnings, and A Clown on Fire‘s Christmas Blogroll Extravaganza. And finally, thank you to Mr. Radar Nelson for the guest blogging spot on Seasons of Insanity. Nancy Grace is a Pig.
Are you excited? I’m jacked to the max. I can’t wait to start the New Year.
It’s gonna be a big one. It’s gonna be a fun one. And it’s gonna be jam packed with more profanity, shenanigans, and water-based lube than ever before. I’m glad to have you all aboard. Let’s rock and roll…
-Happy New Year, and Happy Blogging \m/
In order to find out what all of these things have in common, you’ll have to stop by the My Right to Bitch Blogroll Induction Ceremony on A Clown on Fire. And bring a side a dish. Preferably one with lots of beer in it.
It’s a gloriously festive occasion. I hope you can make it.
I’ve cracked the code. At least I think I did. Stop by the party, and I’ll explain the inner workings of the the very wacky, impressionistic, and sometimes indecipherable A Clown on Fire website. Important answers will be discovered. Answers to questions like, “What the Fuck is a A Clown on Fire?” Perhaps the most burning question of all…
It’s must read material.
Would you expect any less?
Here’s a Preview:
A Clown on Fire is Like:
#3. Eating the most delectable piece of chocolate cake, and finding a dirty band-aid with part of a finger still attached to it in the last bite… (the suspense)
I don’t wanna spoil the fun…
Go check it out!
-Happy Blogging \M/
- Blogroll Inductee – My Right to Bitch (clownonfire.wordpress.com)
- Whats the Difference Between Brownies and Chocolate Cake? (proflowers.com)
- Tinkerbell, Fairy 3 Tier Cake (fairydustdelights.com)
I’ve been a real arrogant asshole lately. Look at me — hoarding all of my prized trophies without sharing them with anyone else. It’s been a long time coming, but I finally got around to passing out some hardware to all the folks that I’m grateful for. You’ve been supportive, thoughtful, inspirational, and bitchin’. Take your awards and hide them in a safe place. You are all winners. We are winners together. Oh, and fuck all that question answering bullshit. Pass them on. Praise a few people that deserve it. Thank you all.
Enter the Award Ceremony to check out a bunch of wickedly cool people. Or don’t. Your choice.
But don’t do this:
-Happy Blogging Bitchers!
- Those Asshole Secessionists (pervertedwisdom.com)
- Memo to the assholes who still call themselves my family (kevinroy.org)
If you’re not familiar with him already, Le Clown is a fast-rising WordPress phenom, and winner of the prestigious Alan Smithee Blog Award. He’s the man solely responsible for Canada’s leading export, quality blog content – surpassing the country’s previous top export, maple syrup. He’s also a surprisingly polite French Canadian (an oxymoron, I know), and a fluent speaker of both French and Frenglish. You might be wondering how I know so much about Canada? Please, there isn’t much to learn…
When I’m not busy looking for porn on the internet, I’m usually reading through blogs – lots of them. It’s a great way to find inspiration when (le) creative tank is running on fumes. When I first discovered Le Clown, I immediately noticed that his material had the opposite effect on me. Rather than leaving me with a new found sense of inspiration, I felt like a poo-head instead. View at your own risk. By the time you finish visiting the circus, you’ll undoubtedly want to end your pathetic blogging career.
I’m packing my desk as I write. I’ve decided to pursue things that come natural to me from now on — things like breathing, walking, etc. Ok, I’m no slouch, but god damn, this guy is endlessly funny — especially the comment threads.
Despite his ego being the size of the Northwest Territories, Le Clown is unlike many of the honorary members of (le) Freshly Pressed hall of fame. As we all know, the majority of stuff on the front page is sub-par. However, Le Clown has rightfully earned his star on the sidewalk by continuing to produce stellar content. As a result, his viewership is trending upward, post-induction – ahem, WordPress editors, market research opportunity!
His phenomenal readership aside, engagement with fans is what I find most impressive. Every person that interacts with his blog is acknowledged, unlike some truly arrogant players I’ve come across. I can’t even imagine the amount of time that’s required to keep up with (le) blog. I get anxious just thinking about it.
You may be wondering if I’m a paid promoter of the circus. The answer is no. You may also be wondering if I’d like to be a paid endorser. The answer is an enthusiastic yes. I won’t quit my day job yet…
More Clowns you Should be Afraid of:
- Homey the Clown – Step out of line and you’re gonna get a rock-filled sock to the back of the head. Whatever shenanigans you may be considering, rest assured, Homey don’t play that game.
- Ronald McDonald - Don’t be fooled by this clown’s happy disposition. He’s laughing all the way to the bank while you stuff your gut full of hamburger grease. If you’re not careful, he might have to blow up a balloon catheter animal inside one of your arteries soon. Would you like fries with that?
- Carrot Top - Never trust a clown that’s going through Anabolic Steroid withdrawal. What ever happened to the skinny goofball with the suitcase full of props? The bigger he gets the more he looks like a woman. I don’t get it?
A few other things Le Clown can do that you can’t:
- Impregnate women just by staring at them — some men, too
- Fashionably wear white foundation and a foam nose in public
- Watch Hockey Night in Canada while his ego does the grocery shopping
Very commendable effort my French-speaking neighbor to the north. I bow to Le Clown and always enjoy your humor. Canada, please don’t be offended by this ignorant American — he means no harm. Besides, I love Don Cherry.
-Happy Blogging Ya Coulrophobic Bitchers!
- Coulrophobia (thatguythatreviewsstuff.wordpress.com)
- WordPress To Retire Le Clown’s Not Featured on Freshly Pressed Jersey (clownonfire.wordpress.com)
- What’s On a Clown’s Mind (clownonfire.wordpress.com)