Bloggy McBlog Blog

Time was a man could have a cup of coffee at Starbucks without having to worry about people talking about him and giggling behind his back. Used to be you could have a cup of coffee and JUST BE LEFT ALONE in order to DRINK YOUR COFFEE IN PEACE! There didn’t used to be neo-nazi sex-girls in black and red spandex repeating quotes from Nitche over and over again in appalingly well pronounced Hoche Douche in the back of every coffee shop. A cup of coffee also used to only be $3.50.

I don’t know about you, but I prefer to add my own sugar and milk. They never get the proportions quite right if they do it for you. And if a cup of coffee isn’t just right that’s an opportunity for a perfect cup of coffee that you’ve missed and is gone forever! You can’t get it back. It’s over. You’re one cup of coffee closer to DEATH and you had a cup of coffee that wasn’t just how you like it. Maybe it had too much sugar in it. Maybe it’s not so weird to want two and a HALF sugars in your coffee. Maybe that’s not so strange. Maybe you shouldn’t make fun of people who ask for that if you run a coffee shop. Maybe you should just make the coffee the way they ask!

And the people in the coffee shop. So many laptops. Some people have three or four. Standing waiting for a table with a laptop in each hand and one tucked under one arm and another held between their knees. So that when a table does become available they drop the one between their knees rushing to get it before some yoga-toned young mother with a stroller and a baby in the stroller gets to it, her breasts screaming “Look at us! Look at us! We’re producing nutrients!” And she sits there, her own laptop perched on the baby’s stomach while she changes it’s diaper and gives it a bottle full of chai, smiling up at the poor man, who has just somehow aquired six more laptops from somewhere. And he smiles back, because what else can you do? You can’t scream at her, you can’t scream “CAN’T YOU TELL I WAS HERE FIRST! I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR A TABLE AND YOU TOOK THIS ONE THAT I WAS LEGITIMATELY ENTITLED TO! IT’S UNFAIR! UNFAIR! I SHOUT TO THE GODS! UNFAIR!” Not in front of the baby. It would cry.

Even I bring my laptop to the coffee shop. But I have to. I have to keep working. I have to keep up with the Work. It’s getting hard. It’s weighing me down, but that’s what is expected of you when you are king of the bloggers.

God, you can’t imagine the incredible suffering I go through on a daily basis. You can’t. There’s no way you could. Imagine a pine marten down your pants. I dare you. That’s the kind of suffering that might bring you up to a level where you could imagine what it’s like to be me. I’m telling you this.

You may say, “Mr. McBlog, how can it be that one of your greatness suffers so much?”

“Please, call me Bloggy,” I say. I don’t really mean it, because though I am humble, I know showing me respect is something you do for yourself and for society as a whole.

“No, I couldn’t,” You say. You sense that it would be wrong to be so familiar. You are right.

“Alright then.” I say. We stand there. We are awkward. I begin to get hungry. I am thinking of lunch AND BOTH OF US HAVE ALREADY FORGOTTEN YOUR QUESTION!!!!!

And then what should I have for lunch? If I ask you, you might take it as an invitation. I’m not sure I want to have lunch with you. Not really. ESPECIALLY NOT IF I HAVE TO PAY!! THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS PAY FOR LUNCH! But I can’t stand there all day waiting for you to leave. I need my lunch.

And when you finally do leave and I call to order lunch the guy on the phone can’t get my order right. I make every effort. I read from the menu listings in Chinese, “Little squiggly thing, like a yam with cross hatching, then what might be a goat or something,” I say. He says they only have pizza. I say I want a pizza with little pizzas all over it AND HE SAYS HE READ ABOUT THAT IN THE ONION!

THE ONION!!! THE ONION STOLE THAT IDEA FROM ME!!! I AM KING OF THE BLOGGERS! I INVENTED THAT! And he won’t make it either. He says it’s not possible. I say that if I was there I’d show him what was possible or not. He suggests some things which, though possible, I would not enjoy at all and I end up going to Subway for an foot long sandwich which turns out to be NOT EXACTLY 12 INCHES LONG and also to taste like crap.

Sometimes I wish for the icy fingers of death.

New York, NY — The work, it’s crushing. There’s so much to blog about. So so much. And so little time. Each entry must be hand crafted. It has to be perfect. Because this is the work. The Blog of Bloggy McBlogBlog, KING OF THE BLOGGERS! Did you think I had forgotten? Did you think that the weight of my responsibility to the internets had SLIPPED MY MIND??? It is never slipping from my mind. It is a constant companion to my mind. I am thinking about it all the time. I am thinking about it when I am eating. I am thinking about when I’m lying awake in my bed at night. I am thinking about it when my spouse or significant other is yelling at me about some crap they say I said I would do, but didn’t do, BECAUSE THE WORK IS SO IMPORTANT I CAN’T BE EXPECTED TO BE ON TIME PICKING UP CHILDREN!!!! THEY SPEND SO LONG AT SCHOOL ALREADY, WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES SIX MORE HOURS MAKE???
God, my head hurts. It throbs. It’s the ideas trying to get out. They can’t wait for my typing, though my fingers (first fingers on both hands and right middle) fly across the keyboard like a pegasus. There are just too many. And they are all VITALLY IMPORTANT to humanity and THE INTERnets. If I were to lose a single one of these precious ideas it would be like dropping a diamond the size of my fist down a storm drain IN THE MIDWEST during a STORM. I can not do that! I can not let it happen.
There are interruptions. There are distractions. I have to answer phone calls from presidential candidates, begging for my endorsement. I can not be partisan. I am not pledged. I tell them that whoever wins I will be forced to BLOG THE TURTH ABOUT THEM. THE TRUTH AS I KNOW IT. NOT AS SOME LAWYER CAN PROVE IT TO BE IN COURT.
What kind of powers do super delegates have? Can they see through pork barrels? Fly? Bend the law with their bare hands?
I am weak now. Days without sleeping or eating much. It takes a toll.

That’s the question that’s been plaguing the world. WHAT HAPPENED? Did my spirit collapse under the vast weight of the task I had set myself? Did the demands of the so-called REAL WORLD take me away from doing the WORK? Was the fact that certain people think that, even though there has been an increase in minimum wage, it’s still not enough money if you are only working two days a week? People who have normal jobs that don’t require the kind of EFFORT that blogging does? People who think that making dinner has to mean cooking?
It could be any of these things. But, really, I JUST HAVEN’T FELT LIKE IT!
Even when The Onion, that New York transplant weekly from Wisconsin, (WISCONSIN! I scream to the clouds above) born of late nights of strained “concepting” and “editing” over steaming bowls of beer-cheese soup, even when they stole my idea for a pizza with little pizzas all over it and put it on the front page of their weekly publication that is so bad that they have to GIVE IT AWAY (unlike my blog, which you get on the internet, which you have to pay for) I did not feel the need to take keyboard in hand and CRY OUT TO THE WORLD that THEY ARE THIEVES and JUDASES and MONKEY BUTTS! I simply was not so moved.
Art can not be forced. You can not simply sit down and say, now I will create a masterpiece. You can not just schedule a time, from 3:30PM to 5:40PM for instance, when you will close the door (or curtain if it’s only really a curtain) to your walk-in closet/office and start DOING GREAT WORK. You can not set aside a time to BE A GENIUS. Either you are ready and the work calls to you or you are not ready and it doesn’t call. Or it calls and you’re not ready. One of those. And sometimes not the good one.

New York, NY — I was sitting at my desk, piled high with research materials, telegrams from well wishers and supeneas, eating my favorite lunch, pizza con le pizze piccole in cima esso, the speciality of a newly opened pizzeria owned by a man from Delaware, when I realized a fundamental literary truth. Jokes with monkeys in them are just funnier than jokes with birds, especially pigeons. Jokes with elephants are good too. Bears and rabbits are good, but only together. Dogs are funny if they can talk. Horses aren’t funny. I made a chart. Someday I will show this chart to other people and it will REVOLUTIONIZE COMEDY THE WAY I HAVE REVOLUTIONIZED THE INTERNETS. People will know what kinds of animals to put in their jokes. They will not make the sort of mistakes they have made in the past. Allow me to illustrate my point.

Joke #1: How can you tell if there have been elephants in your refrigerator? Their footprints in the butter.
Joke #2: How can you tell if there have been rats in your refrigerator? Their footprints in the butter.

You see the difference? The first is an amusing joke you could share with a good friend over a grape soda or a cognac after dinner, chortle for a few moments together and then go back to your hum drum lives a little happier, the load on your metaphorical shoulders a little lighter. The second is just a horrible thing that sometimes actually happens.
Rats aren’t funny. Not normal rats. Damp rats are even less funny. But damp radioactive rats can be funny, but only in movies. For instance it would be funny to have a pretty young girl being chased through a sewer by a pack of damp radioactive rats. One of them leaps and tears her shirt off. She runs up some stairs and burst through a door and she’s running through a soup kitchen full of drunken homeless men and nuns with her woman parts bouncing up and down, followed by hundreds of damp radioactive rats. The nuns scream and run, the homeless men, most of whom are played in the movie by former child actors from TV, assume the rats are just hallucinations brought on by drinking Sterno mixed with Pinesol and Diet Sierra Mist. They shrug off advancing wall of wet rodents, ignoring the frantic buzzing of a geiger counter left behind by the mother superior. Then they rats are upon them, rending their flesh and giving them cancer all at once. But there is this pretty girl jiggling around half naked, so everyone laughs.
Steve Martin once said that comedy was the art of making people laugh without making them… something.. something… He was probably right.
People talk about comedy a lot. More than they should really.

New York, NY — The incredible pressure of my position in the internets is starting to get to me again. Even with my hiatus I am already exhausted. Blogging is not for the weak. It is not something that CAN BE DONE BY PEOPLE WHO ARE NOT STRONG. It is the most demanding job a person can have working ABOVE THE GROUND. Being a salt miner may be worse physically, I’m not sure. But think of the solitude and the time to reflect you would have thousands of feet below the Earth’s surface gathering salt ore to be taken to the salt refinery by a trained donkey who has long ago lost his site, so that he can only find his way through that one dark dark mine that he is used to, so when the mine is all used up, all the salt is gone from it, they have to KILL THE POOR DONKEY. It is really very sad. But you would have all the time in the world to think about the fate of the donkey if you were a miner down there, with your headlight on your hard headhat. Your pick jauntily thrown over one shoulder. It’s too loud to talk to anyone, with all the jack hammers and the donkey’s braying and they stumble around in their blindness. You would just think and ponder. Do donkey’s have souls? You would ask yourself.
But I HAVE NO TIME FOR PONDERING. I can think about the fate of the poor poor donkey, though I am not a cruel person. I must continue blogging. There is not time to stop. Bloggers can never stop. They can never slow down. The world needs them. And I more than most, since I am the KING OF THE BLOGGERS.

New York, NY — I am on hold. They are going to return to take my call shortly. My call is important to them. I don’t have a problem with any of these things. People complain all the time about being put on hold. But what do they expect? They think there will be someone at the place they are calling just sitting there waiting IN CASE THEY CALL? The company would have to have one phone operator for each person who might call. That could mean having millions of people waiting for calls, all day and all night. CALLS THAT NEVER COME. How sad would the lone person at Microsoft who is supposed to answer calls from me be? I never call them. I have no reason to call them. But that poor person sits there, day in and day out, waiting for me to call. Perhaps he or she has a picture of me in their cubicle.
Think also of the person at the phone company and the one at FedEx, all of them waiting for me to call. Perhaps they would form a little club, where they would trade pictures of me an little facts and tidbits about my life.
“Did you know that when he was a boy he had a shirt with Grover from Sesame Street on it?” One would say to another one at one of their Thursday evening meetings.
“No, I did not,” the other one would answer, looking dreamily at a picture of me on my tricycle wearing said shirt. “It is a fine shirt that he had. I wish he needed to wash that shirt and his washing machine was broken so he would call me and ask about getting it repaired!” Tears would roll down this person’s face, “No! I didn’t mean it,” they would say. “I don’t want any sort of bad things to happen to him. I want his washing machine to always be working perfectly, but if only he would have a question about it, about what kind of detergent to use or whether it can be stacked with a dryer. Anything, anything at all…” And they would sob quietly to themselves. The other people at the meeting would pat them on the back and give sympathy.
So much sadness these people would have.
The only sensible thing would be for all these companies to get together and hire just a single person to answer my questions on all the different products and services that they offer. That one person could wait quietly for my call, AND I WOULD CALL. Not very often perhaps, but every couple of weeks. And they would be able to offer me quite a high level of service because they would get to know me and spend their down time learning all about me. “I see that you like Irish Folk Music, but not about political or religious conflict, I will play some for you while I put you on hold…”
Such a system would be almost perfect.

New York, NY — Here are a few things I have learned over the last few weeks. 1) If you are sentenced to 30 days in jail, that can be MORE THAN A MONTH if that month is February. 2) We have all heard about “time off for good behavior.” Apparently there is a corollary rule where they can ADD time. 3) Just because an undercover police car looks like a taxi, doesn’t mean they have to take you anywhere if they don’t want to.

New York — Well, here we are rapping up the first month of Bloggy McBlog Blog. Hard to believe that things could have changed for the internets so much in just one month. If you pick up and magazine or newspaper now you will see an article about the internets or even about blogging. I’ve had that much of an impact.
I thought I would take this time to thank some of the people who have made it possible. People other than me, because that would be pretty egotistical to thank myself in public. Though when I think about how much of the work I have done and about how much more I have had to suffer than anyone else, NO MATTER WHAT ANYONE SAYS ABOUT THEIR SUFFERING just because they have to live with me, it seems like everyone else’s contribution to this blog seems pretty tiny. I’m not saying that to belittle people, but just to point out that this blog is the work of me, and not of other people. I do want to thank my family though. Sometimes they leave me alone long enough to get my work done. Sometimes they don’t REMIND ME THAT I AM NOT EARNING AS MUCH AS SOME PEOPLE THEY DATED before.
I would also like to thank the man who runs the little coffee cart on my corner for giving my kids free muffins.
Also the man who used to live in this building and then moved and later got a Hillshire Farms gift basket from some sewer cleaning service, which was left in the lobby all day until it was clear this man was not going to drive back from Connecticut to get it and that it would just rot if no one took it.
I would like to thank the UPS man. He knows what for.
I would like to thank my neighbors, the Weingartners who do not password protect their wireless network access OR plaster over the hole in their door frame where the cable TV goes in and where the cable can be so easily spliced and split and a cable run a few yards under the hall carpet, though occasionally the old lady with the walker and the horrible yipping dog does sometimes trip over the bump.
I would like to thanks the advertisers who advertise on my site, EXCEPT FOR THE ONES SELLING FAT LESBIAN PORN! I DO NOT THANK THEM!
I would like to thank all of you for reading my blog. Though really, it is I who give you something of immense value for nothing. And you do not thank me. But I know that the world is full of rude people with small souls.

New York, NY — I thought that putting ads on my site was an indication that GIANT CORPORATION Google wanted to play nice, but apparently not. I have discovered TWO INDICATIONS that they are continuing their campaign against me. One is the particular ads they are running on my site. They have advertisements for PORNOGRAPHY SITES with contents that include FAT LESBIANS! I do not blog about fat lesbian porn. My readers do not like to look at fat lesbian porn. They are not interested in it. It would make them feel ASHAMED and UNCOMFORTABLE if they were to see fat lesbian porn. I do not hate fat people and I do not hate lesbians. I do not hate fat lesbians. What they do in the privacy of their fat lesbian homes is their own business. It does not concern me what they do, unless they are, perhaps, driving down the street in their fat lesbian car and I am crossing the street and they are talking on their fat lesbian cellular telephone and don’t see that I am crossing the street and when they do look up they honk very loudly at me for a long time and curse as if it is my fault that they weren’t paying attention and that their fat lesbian car came very close to hitting and killing me and they yell out of their window, and consequently into their fat lesbian phone, “Hey, duck head! Watch out!” DUCK HEAD?!? What is that to call someone? Duck head? I do not have a duck head. No one has ever suggested that I have a duck head. I don’t even know what that means. Does it mean I have a duck for a head or that my head looks like the head of a duck? Or perhaps it was a command. I should DUCK MY HEAD AND BOW AT THEIR RETREATING FAT LESBIAN BUMPER!
The other indication is that they are continuing to make people find my site with completely inappropriate search terms! Yesterday someone found my site with “how do bedridden fat people pay for their food?” Google should not make people find my site with terms like that. I do not know the answer to that question. I have not addressed that question in my blog. I DO NOT CONSIDER IT AN IMPORTANT ISSUE. I do not even know how you would research such an issue. That they must pay for their food somehow how is a fact of our capitalist system. Some people produce products, such as yams, Twinkies and RC Cola. Other people consume those products. This is facilitated by the transfer of federally issued currency. I HAVE NO PROBLEM WITH THAT. That a person is fat and in bed does not make me more curious about how they get the currency to buy these products, any more than it makes me curious about how many yams and Twinkies they eat or how they prepare the yams or wether they soak the Twinkies in RC Cola overnight and eat them like a protein shake in the morning. I DO NOT CARE ABOUT THIS. IT IS NONE OF MY BUSINESS. Clearly the implication is that the fat people are bedridden because they are fat. Maybe not. Perhaps they had a slip and fall accident in a supermarket. A genuine one. BECAUSE SOME SLIP AND FALL ACCIDENTS ARE GENUINE. They are not all scams arranged by the slipper and faller. Though you would think that if a person needed some money, perhaps to spend at that very supermarket, and they needed it enough to pretend to slip on a package of Trix yogurt and fall down and pretend to have shattered their hip, they must really need the money. And more than just $20! AND NO ONE SHOULD BE BANNED FROM A SUPERMARKET THAT IS WITHIN 3 BLOCKS OF THEIR HOUSE. It is too far to walk to the other one and the CVS doesn’t carry all the fancy foods that other people in your family might demand to have, like fruit.
Someone coming to my site to find out about the economics of bedridden fat people would be very disappointed. And perhaps they are doing research for the federal government and consequently wasting tax payer money by visiting my site and not getting any information that is useful to them. Perhaps this is crucial research. Perhaps they want to use the information about how fat people who can not get out of bed get money to buy yams and twinkies and two-liter bottles of RC Cola to solve a serious social problem facing our country, like how a woman with a perfectly good job could spend so much time thinking about how her HUSBAND ISN’T EARNING ENOUGH MONEY. And now that research will be side tracked because that paid government researcher will have to spend their time reading my blog. That one researcher might be happier, might be a better person, but the research isn’t going so well at that point, is it? And who looks like the villian? I DO! AND IT’S REALLY GOOGLE’S FAULT. They are trying to destroy me. I am scaring them. Sometimes I scare myself as well. But that does not make me want to attack myself! I do not tell people to go read my blog if they are interested in finding out about fat people in bed or about fat lesbians. I do not say to people I happen to meet at court or at the emergency room, “Oh, are you interested in things about fat people and their incomes? About what piece of furniture they can not get out of? Well, let me tell you, you should go to bloggymcblogblog.com.” I do not.