An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Hey, Blog Tracker, What the Fuck is Wrong With You?

Dear Blog Tracker (or,

You sick or something?

You're just not yourself lately, and I'm worried. Call this a Welfare Check. Call this a knock on your door. Call this a Hallmark get-well-soon card.

Something's wrong with you, I can tell. Normally, underneath the My Masonic Apron "Members" Section (there's 196 of you-- YEAH, RIGHT!) the little Blog Tracker icon appears showing my traffic rank. Or whatever it shows. I don't really understand it. But it's a four-digit number that ranks this site's popularity/traffic against the statistics of other blogs. (Not recently, though. For the past two weeks, there's just been an ugly little red "x" there.)

Normally, it shows me who's peekin' under the apron, and when they're doing it. And what OS they're using. And what their screen resolution is.

That part cracks me up. Do I really give a fuck that someone is using 1024x728 megafuckheads to look at this blog? Jesus Christ, I know I don't have many other things to do with my time other than worrying about such things, but come on now.

Anyway, Blog Tracker. If you're taking some kind of vacation or something, you really should have called or sent me an email to let me know. If you'd done me that solid, I might have even popped over to collect your mail or water your pets, but you just didn't seem to give two fucks about letting me know. You just high-tailed it out of here to Vegas or some shit. And I feel some kind of way about that.

Now, if you're sick, that's one thing. I understand that everybody gets under the weather, even online traffic tracking software. There are bugs in our systems and viruses and malware and all that shit. And there's syphillis, too, which ain't no joke. If you fucked some nasty-ass hooker and your balls done fell off, I understand that. I feel you. I'm with you.

Just let a brother know. N'yah mean?

Now, if you just peaced out because of something I said, you didn't feel like you wanted to be associated with this blog anymore-- maybe you were offended by the Diabetes post from long ago, or you didn't like what I had to say about Russell Brand or 8th Continent Soymilk or some other crazy shit like that, well, hey-- okay. That's okay. We can work it out, though. If you don't let me know when you're offended, if you don't let me know what you need in a non-judgemental way, how can I know it's time for me to apologize? How do I know how to resolve a conflict until I know there is a conflict to resolve?

Running away from your problems, Blog Tracker, is the coward's way out. Sure, you may choose that course of action because it's non-confrontational, and maybe confrontation makes you uncomfortable and, believe me, it's not my favorite thing in the world either, but it's that conflict that helps us to forge stronger relationships.

And that, Blog Tracker, is what I want to do with you. I want to build connections, inroads, bridges, handshakes, bearhugs, powerlunches, roto-virus, inertia-reel, dovetailed, carbonated relationships.

With you.

With you, Blog Tracker.

But I can't do that when you run from me. You're no prey, and I'm no predator. You're no fox, and I'm no overdressed, intoxicated member of the British aristocracy.

Come back.

Come back to me.

Let's.... let's mend fences.

Let's.... touch each other... quietly. In the basement. On top of the washing machine, maybe.

With the lights off.

We could, I don't know, shave each other.

You like to be shaved, don't you, Blog Tracker?


Don't speak.

It's better if we don't speak.

Just.... shhhhh..............................

1 comment:

  1. It is very difficult to know people and I don't think one can ever really know any but one's own countrymen. For men and women are not only themselves; they are also the region in which they are born, the city apartment or the farm in which they learnt to walk, the games they played as children, the old wives' tales they overheard, the food they ate, the schools they attended, the sports they followed, the poets they read, and the God they believed in. It is all these things that have made them what they are, and these are the things that you can't come to know by hearsay, you can only know them if you have lived them.


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