from September 17, 2007
Mr. Know-It-All here. What THE HELL is wrong withthe so-called Mr. Blog AKA Barry “Horton Rotnac”? Rotnac???? He named himself after a weirdo with a furry hat????? And I happen to know that his middle name is NOT “Horton.”
Look at what he’s been writing lately. I’m usually in no condition to read, but I’ve been a little more sober lately and that just pisses me off. Being sober too. Some shit about Dracula movies and ant farms. Who has an ant farm? What do they grow on fucking ant farms? Ants? Or do the ants grow crops, I dunno, like little farmers with mandibles, whatever. Are there ant cowboys? What the fuck? It’s his freakin’ unreality. “The Ambien went straight to my sleep centers,” he wrote, like it’s the damn pill making him write all that crap. Shit, I take four Ambien with my coffee in the morning and you don’t hear me complaining. Try shooting up a highball in your testicles, that’ll go to your head, believe me.
Then he wrote about pets. Don’t listen to him. Pets are a waste of time. You have to feed them- and you can’t feed them pizza or beer, stuff you’d like to eat too. No, pets make you spend money. Money that would be better spent on Colt 45 and hookers. And pets make you clean up after them. There was time I woke up after a couple of days, or maybe a week, I don’t remember so good, but there was this cat, wherever I was, and the cat had shit all over the place, all over me, all over itself. The cat was crazy. I’ll tell you what pets are good for- FOOD. Damn straight. Let’s say you are stuck in a cellar for a few days because some drug dealer thinks maybe you owe him some money and he’s gonna starve you for a while. And let’s say you had a Golden Labrador Retriever, Mr. Bugglesworth. Here’s what you do- eat the dog. (Yeah, that example would have worked on a desert island too, but Mr. Know-It-All usually finds himself in strange cellars, not islands.) And if you have a guinea pig or a gerbil, here’s the real advice- keep it out of your ass, for god’s sake!
What is wrong with that guy? Barry “Horton Rotnac” watched some movies and wrote some so-called reviews. I’ll be honest- I was stoned every single time Grease came on the television, just by coincidence, so maybe his reviews were good, but why the fuck not review something somebody might have seen in this century? OK, so he did that Ratatalata movie, but it was a cartoon for kids. And what did he do? Turned it all messed up and homosexual. He might have messed up more kid’s psyches than I did when I drove a bus and started “kiss the driver’s lap day.”
This guy is some sort of stalker. He spent way too much time writing about weirdoes in his area. You know what? HE’S THE WEIRDO! Spending all day, peeking around, probably, with his binoculars peeking at everybody. Go back and read his crap- I’ll put it simply: HE IS OBSESSED WITH A LITTLE OLD MAN FROM HONG KONG. I have never been so drunk as to be obsessed with little old men that way he has. I’ve woken up with a couple, but I blame that on the booze. Yeah, the booze.
All you kids out there, listen to your friend Mr. Know-It-All: this fool doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He had the nerve to read other people’s bogs and make fun of them. THEY SHOULD MAKE FUN OF HIS CRAP! And he has the nerve to insult Lisa Marie Presley, daughter of The King????? I may not have had an erection since 1997 but she sure makes my Mr. Limpy dribble. Leave Elvis’s daughter alone!
I have no idea why anybody reads that stuff, like when he spent a month writing about some gorilla films he just made up. Maybe if he put that effort into getting laid there would be less shit about “The Master Hong Kong Tailor.” OK, I’ll give him credit for one thing- he was right about that 6,000-pound woman fat wet t-shirt contest. I was almost scared straight, but instead I went straight to the coke. (And when is the next party, anyway?)
HE IS A NUT! I can’t be anymore direct- there is something very wrong, all the nonsense with arrows, and parentheses, and brackets. I think he has some kind of OCD where he has to do fucked-up shit or else he thinks the house will burn down or he’ll die of leprosy or something like that.
I have given a lot of advice in the past. When I’m sober, I even try to write an advice column you might have read, so here is the advice of a professional advice guy- get this man the help he needs. His bogs read like the ravings of a man craving attention from one of his split personalities. He needs serious meds, fast. Intervene, now. Do it for his own good.
Mr. Blog's Tepid Ride 
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