I Don't Accept That

Blogger fucked up, and they fucked up on my birthday. How unacceptable.

I used to know an Asian neurologist who, when confronted with something with which he did not agree, would angrily proclaim, "I don't accept that."

Actually, when he said it, it sounded more like, "I don assep tat!" I think there are a lot of people who would say that what I just did there is racist. These people are the same fucklords who want to ban "Huckleberry Finn".

Anyway, Blogger deleted my birthday post yesterday, and the lovely comments that went along with it, and I don assept tat. Of course, I realize that I do not live on an isolated island with mermaid-style prostitutes and tufted leather chairs and endless supplies of sugary, chocolatey treats. I realize that other people were fucked over by Blogger on May 12th. And I am angry for them. I am angry for you.

I bleed for you. Out my ass. My ass bleeds for you, ******.blogspot.com.

It. Bleeds.

I figure that the internuts are full of irate posts about Blogger's ineptitude by now, and I typically don't add my voice when I know there are other far breathier voices out there and they're all talking about the same thing. The thing is: I'm really upset. The other thing is, in a situation where a bunch of people are doing one thing, I typically present myself with two options:

1.) Take a contrary position

or

2.) Stay silent and/or talk about something else

Now, option 1 is clearly out of the question. How the hell can I take a contrary position about Blogger twisting my nuts and calling it love? "Oh, Blogger fucking up on my birthday? Yeah, it really gave me a chance to be all contemplative and disconnected from the fast-paced online world and I used the time I normally would have wasted blogging traipsing about in the wilderness holding hands with a grizzly bear and we picked a couple daisies and shoved them up each other's twart."

I mean, come on. That's just silly. No grizzly bear would ever hold hands with me.

I considered option 2, but I'm not very good at staying silent, and, truthfully, I couldn't really think of anything else I wanted to talk about. So, by default, I was going to blog about Blogger's immense cock-up, one way or another.

I suppose I should go easier on Blogger, seeing as they've provided me with 792 opportunities to pretend I'm a writer and all, with relatively few interruptions or complications. And it's free, so, really, you'd expect the servers or the interface to fuck up a lot more than it does, because things that are free are generally for bullshit-- like those stale-ass cookies in the Bank of America lobby or sex in Thailand or those BIC pens on the counter at the hardware store. And it's very true that everybody makes mistakes, and the error that prompted Blogger to shitcan probably 798,432,345 blog posts on May 12th was most likely a human error, prompted by some college drop-out's decision to masturbate in his cubicle and his gyrating elbow hit some key or other-- and that's a forgivable human mistake. And I can acknowledge that. I can understand that. I can relate to that. If I look deep down into the smarmy, swarthy depths of my thirty-one-year-old soul, I can even forgive that.

But I don assep tat.