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What Is Wrong With My Writing?

13 Nov

from October 3, 2007

What is wrong with my writing lately? You’d know better than me, you actually read this stuff. Honestly, I type this with my eyes closed.

I refer specifically to the Marcel Marceau eulogy. It is one of  my shortest blogs, possibly the shortest, if you ignore that old “poetry ” blog. Go back and reread it if you care to. (The Marceau thing, not the “poetry.” Let’s give that one a quick death.)

Now, I really like that one a lot, and I don’t say that about much of my stuff. But I noticed something. First of all, and bear this in mind, there is nothing easier to make fun of than a dead mime. It is a comedy maxim! Look it up.

But my issue here is that I wrote the whole blog and avoided the dreaded “F-word.” I wrote the whole thing and never once mentioned the word “French.”

I don’t get it- I am all about the easy joke, and if a dead mime is easy to make fun of, imagine all the dead French mime jokes just waiting to be hatched. The mind boggles! It is even easier to rag on the French than blaming the “Vast Right Wing Conspiracy.” (Snicker snicker snort! I can’t even type that with a straight face! How does Hilary do it? I guess she got her poker face from putting up with all of Bill’s blue dress stains.)

My typical blog is something like this- “blah blah blah Bela Lugosi is an under-rated actor blah blah blah something about parenthesis period arrow.” But I didn’t go there that time. Why not?

Now look at the more recent “Space blog.” Damn if I didn’t take the easy route there. Tom Cruise and Scientology. I didn’t even have to make up any jokes- that fruity little club manages to insult itself. And Tom Cruise is a punch line in no need of a joke.

So again- what is wrong with my writing?

Here is some info for you:

THINGS I AM READING OR HAVE RECENTLY READ:

The Monk, and The Castle of Otranto, two 18th Century Gothic novels.

The Late Great USA by Jerome Corsi- current events and politics.

The Five Red Herrings, a mystery from 1937 by Dorothy L. Sawyer.

THINGS I WRITE ABOUT:

Godzilla

So clearly there is a disconnect here, a Diaspora, if you will.

(LOOK THAT WORD UP! THAT WAS A HELL OF A REFERENCE I JUST MADE!)

I live in the disconnect.

What do I need to do?

I need to ensure that I write about more trivia, nonsense, and obscure crap only funny to me.

I need to never ever miss a chance for a French joke.

And I need an editor, that’s for sure.

Who the f*** does he think he is?- a rebuttal by Mr. Know-It-All

13 Nov

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.

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