Why I hate BLOGS?

August 20, 2006

Okay, so let’s get a little more objective here. Let’s pause a moment and reflect on weblogs, what they are, and why they exist.What is a weblog? Well, a weblog (or ‘blog’ in the slang of the afflicted) is like a public journal. An autobiography of sorts, a weblog is an intimate look at the thoughts of an individual person, written from the perspective of that person, updated regularly, created as a publicly browsable web page. The first weblogs were created by simple web folk in the late 1990s to keep track of interesting things they found on the web. Basically lists of links, they were a precursor to modern web-news sites like Slashdot.org. Many of these offered personal editorials from their link compilers/authors. These weblogs were pioneering a new idea of personal opinion sites that would someday blossom into a virus like phenomenon of “blogs”, where hoards of nobodies regurgitated their every thought into the digital void. At some point in this primordial weblog soup, the online diary emerged onto the scene.

Some of the first really useful “online diary” type sites I remember seeing were created by key software developers of rather famous software projects to announce daily or weekly progress on their work to their eagerly awaiting audiences in an effort to curb the incessant emails asking them for progress reports, current status of bugs, etc. They could simply point these eager beavers to their weblog and tell them to follow along. To facilitate their own weblogs, many developers and webloggers created rudimentary weblog programs that allowed them (and anyone else) to easily create their online diaries; this was another large step toward the weblog explosion. Other legitimate uses of weblogs grew quickly and the distinction between online diary and weblog became less distinct as link lists evolved into internet news sites. Large-scale weblogs tracked the progress of National Geographic teams in the Sahara, the status of international rally races, the daily lives of astronauts; smaller-scale weblogs were created by other celebrity figures in order to reach out to fans/followers. Pretty much anyone who was well-known might have some sort of online diary: models, magazine editors, authors, government figures, celebrities, scientists, even royalty. Along with these, came the copycats. Suddenly, just about everyone decided they too should have an online diary. Enter, the personal weblogger, or “blogger”.

Anyone in the computer industry, especially web developers, probably knows someone who has, or has themselves, some sort of online diary. In it, they rant about things that upset them, they swoon over girls/boys they like, they expose their deepest fears and herald their most miraculous events with bold tags and large colored fonts. They evangelize for their favorite computer manufacturers, they list URLs they find interesting, they philosophize on mundane linguistic topics and editorialize on current political issues to, apparently, everyone. Therein lies the catch, of course, for their “audience” is probably, at best, only a couple of pairs of eyeballs and the countless hours they spend at the keyboard typing out their inner thoughts are likely wasted on a couple of readers, whom they will probably never actually meet. So why do they do it?
There are, I’m sure, as many reasons to keep weblogs as there are weblogs authors, however, some common threads surely exist between them. What could motivate someone to keep a public journal of their innermost thoughts? What possible reasons would someone have? Are some legitimately insightful or original, of course! Are most? No, probably not. So why? Well, I think most can be classified into one (or many) of several basic categories.

The Reverse Voyeur. This person suffers from a serious personal attention debt. I think this probably accounts for the majority of weblog authors. Not so much an exhibitionist, they aren’t making a spectacle of themselves in order to attract attention, no these people simply wish to be spied on intimately. They crave attention from someone else in their lives, they wish that someone would see them for who they really are and want to spend real time with them. Some are quite balanced persons who, for whatever reasons, have become recently socially disabled and crave the contact of another human being in some way…these acute cases probably cure themselves after human contact is resumed. Others are simply social outcasts who have never received quality human attention and to them, the weblog is a vast unknown audience that actually listens to their thoughts, cares about their opinions, and listens to their jokes. All of these persons are reaching out into the void in the hopes that someone will read their digital thoughts and the thought that they are communicating with others (even though no one else may be listening) is comforting. It is the same phenomenon found in many religions, as followers pray into the void, knowing the communication is one way, but the hoping that their thoughts are being received by the heavens brings them peace in some way. These people should be shot on sight and all their genetic material vaporized…fucking losers. Chronic Reverse Voyeurs probably need sex worse than normal people need oxygen.
* A side note about my use of the term “reverse voyeur”. It’s not an official term, but one I adopted to differentiate between an exhibitionist, who makes a spectacle of in an effort to _draw_ attention to themselves, and the reverse of a voyeur, who simply likes to look at other people intimately. A “reverse voyeur”, then, in my terminology, would be someone who likes to be _looked at_ intimately, however, does nothing to attract others to give them attention, aside from simply _being_. The physical analogs of each might be an exhibitionist, who runs down the street naked, and the reverse voyeur, who just _wishes_ that someone would peep through their open window while they are taking a shower.

The Exhibitionist. These people are genuinely out there trying to wiggle their junk in everyone’s faces. They are ACTIVELY making a nuisance of themselves via their weblogs in order to draw attention. They rant about controversial topics and take the side most likely to produce the largest public outcry from their readers. They want attention and don’t care if it’s bad or good, they just need someone to pay them attention. The Exhibitionist often evolves out of failed attempts at other weblogger archetypes in the same way that the frantic struggles of a drowning swimmer evolve from the patient water-treading that slowly drains their physical reserves. They are the kids that behave badly in school because it gets them noticed. These people deserve all the bad attention they can get…let them wallow in their filth and enjoy the show.

The Self-Important Moron. These people honestly believe that they have ‘listeners’ who actually care what they think about the various topics they rant about in their weblogs. They believe that their opinions matter in the grand scheme of things. They are typically idealists who believe that one-person-can-make-a-difference bullshit applies to them personally or that they are somehow more enlightened than the rest of us schmucks. They tend to be rather self-involved or often highly opinionated about one particular subject area (politics, music, etc.) and feel that their random meanderings on the subject are justified by their profound and unique insight into it. Truth is, nobody really fucking cares what these people think. These people deserve to be sodomized with a red-hot poker and slowly eaten alive by army ants.

The Obsessive-Delusional Ranter. These people can’t turn it off. They fixate on everything and NEED to talk about it. These are the people you have to find an excuse to walk away from occasionally because they just fucking won’t shut the hell up. They have an opinion on everything, whether they do or not. Often, their weblogs are unfocused, blindly-meandering, blatherfests that may start on one topic and end up passing through twenty new topics before finally ending in a non sequitur or some comment about a failed love affair two years ago. They’ll talk about the oatmeal they had for breakfast and come up with four reasons not to talk to chipmunks on a weekday and then get started on their opinions about Jewish footwear, all in the same log entry. They are severely agitated personalities who hunger constantly to express all the myriad thoughts in their head, but often have no one to listen to them (see: Reverse Voyeur, above) or just no one around at the time to listen to them. These people need a pre-frontal lobotomy followed by a cinderblock head message or a morphine drip and a phat blunt.

The Town Crier. This person uses weblogs to announce things. Typically, the Town Crier archetype doesn’t really use weblogs for anything other than to let the void know about important events in his or her life. Anything worth writing on a calendar is typically fair game; anniversaries, birthdays, kid’s first tooth, new car purchase, new computer part, interesting event at work, etc. This person seems to think that people are watching their weblog intently for updates, hoping to get a glimpse into the fascinating world that is their own. Maybe they’ve told someone in their family about their weblog and assume that that person is looking at it occasionally for updates (and maybe one or two is). This person really doesn’t invest much time in their weblog, they are often hovering on the use-not-use line somewhere, but haven’t made the move to completely abandon their weblog yet. Often they are recovering “bloggers” who have previously been much more active in their weblog authoring, but have, as of late, begun to create entries less often because of outside influences and actual honest to goodness life. Weblog authors who are _only_ Town Criers have a chance, they can be saved, but typically only by themselves.

The Tragically Geek. This person is a depressing realization of all that is bad in the land of the nerd. They may be very powerful geeks in their own right, excellent programmers or scientists or mathematicians or philosophers, but they’ve lost their soul to the world of the geek and will probably never get it back. They live in front of a monitor, they follow the weblogs of friends and write their own weblogs because they realize their friends will read theirs too, friends typically known by aliases like ‘warzd00d’ or ‘Ph33rFr33k’ or ‘No><ius’. They haven’t seen real sunlight in weeks and their skin is the color of copy paper. If they are male, the last time they saw a real vagina in person was probably on the day of their birth or perhaps when they paid some girl at a club some extra money to show hers to them. They can tell you the value of Pi to twelve digits and their primary mode of socialization is by touching plastic keys and looking at a flatpanel LCD screen. These people should probably all be sent to an island without technology for a decade to make them learn to be real humans again, but unfortunately, the world would probably collapse without them, so they just have to stay in their Aeron chairs and maintain the real world, sortof like those batteries on the Matrix.

The Ego Stroker. This weblogger is sortof a cross between a Reverse Voyeur and Self-Important Moron. A feeling of zero self-worth leads this weblogger to reach to the void for validation of their lives. In real life, this dumbass probably does the same thing to everyone they meet. They tell you about their day, they tell you about something they did, all in the hopes that you’ll provide them with the sort of approval their Daddy never gave them. This weblogger listens to the silence and assumes that nothing is better than someone saying something bad about what they’ve done and, like a fourteen-year-old with a Hustler, masturbates their self-esteem to the rhythm of the keyboard clicks. This weblogger is often depressed, sad, and lonely…basically a fucking looser who needs a reality check written in whatever comes out when they get a steel-toed Redwing to the temporal lobe.

The Crossover Poster. This weblogger isn’t satisfied with just talking about THEIR stupid moronic opinions, they have to crosspost with someone ELSE’s stupid moronic opinions, link to THEIR weblog and then create a weblog entry that regurgitates the other person’s post, then expands on their personal feelings about the original post, what it means to them in the deepest most fluffy happy pathetic useless fucked-up places of their hearts. Not _only_ can these dipshits not come up with something useful to post in their own weblogs, they feel the need to post something so badly, that they steal someone else’s content to feed their insatiable need to beg the universe for attention. These people need to be set on fire and put out with a switchblade.

The Aspiring Writer. This weblogger is probably one or many of the other weblogger personality archetypes and is using the excuse that they are an aspiring writer to justify their meaningless drivel. They’ll marvel at how wonderful it is to have a printing press in every home, or they’ll talk about how their weblog helps validate their writing and builds writing skills, steadfastly ignoring the fact that they could do the exact same thing WITHOUT a weblog and not publicly. They are undoubtedly following some other agenda or fulfilling some other need, but have found an excuse that seems acceptable in their minds that justifies the electronic equivalent to holding up a big sign that says, “Please look at me! I’m important! Listen to me!” These people need to just accept what they are and deal with it or dive on a pitchfork.

The Pedant (a subclassification of Self Important Moron). This weblogger is basically the same asshole/bitch you know that enjoys arguing about the stupidest, most minute details of whatever subject they are ranting about at the time. They’ll argue about usage rules for an English word or rant about how a senator wears his shoes. They’ll feverishly pontificate about how nobody seems to understand or use correctly some esoteric networking protocol or how nobody seems to understand their horror at something Microsoft did. These people are utterly without lives and write weblog entries more as a way to pass the horrible lonely waking hours between work and sleep. Unfortunately, there’s no cure for the Pedants of the world, they just continue to bitch and moan their whole lives and even sometimes manage to find others like them, much to the eternal annoyment of the rest of the norms. Pedants are fucking arrogant annoying twats that need a railroad spike wedged in their aorta.

This is by no means meant to be a complete list. There are many many more ways that a weblog author can be a fucked up person…this list is meant as a demonstration of a handful of the mindfucked attitudes weblog authors may be experiencing.

MORE HATE HERE


The ninjas can be stupid too

August 20, 2006

The old man is a teenage mutant ninja turtle

August 20, 2006

Evolution of what…??!!

August 20, 2006

Some people have a looooooooooooooooooooooooooot of free-time


Patriotic DOG

August 20, 2006

People who are REALLY stupid

August 20, 2006

COMPUTER PARANOIA

  • Her: (shrieking) “WHAT ARE YOU DOING???”
  • Me: “I’m checking my email–“
  • Her: “It looks like you’re breaking into the computer!!”
  • Me: “No really — I’m checking my mail.”
  • Her: “But that’s not HOTMAIL!!”
  • Me: “I don’t use hotmail. I use–“
  • Her: “But EVERYONE uses HOTMAIL!!”
  • Me: “No, my account goes through UTM. My email account ends with–“
  • Her: “But that’s not what MYYY UTM looks like!!” (apparently referring to the UTM web page)
  • Me: “Yes, I’m telnetting. It’s another way of accessing–“
  • Her: “I think you better shut that off. You’re breaking into the computer.”
  • Me: “But I–“
  • Her: “Turn it off. I don’t believe that ‘checking mail’ story.”

——————————————————————————————

  • Me: “I scanned these pictures in, then tried to open this GIF I downloaded.”
  • Her: “What? You can’t do that! That type of a file is for Windows machines only! It isn’t supported on Macs.”
  • Me: “No, it is a standard graphic file. It can be opened on either machine.”
  • Her: “No it can’t! You might have to pay to fix this.”
  • Me: “If it can’t open on a Mac, how did I get it to open on this Mac right here? See?”
  • Her: “Don’t do that! You’re gonna break that one also.”

——————————————————————————————

  • Tech Support: “Yes, ma’am, we require a credit card or checking account in order to sign up on our service.”
  • Customer: “Well, I saw on the news that I should never give out my credit card information!”
  • Tech Support: “Well, ma’am, we have to have a way to bill you.”
  • Customer: “No other service does this!”
  • Tech Support: “No, ma’am, the others don’t allow you to use a checking account.”
  • Customer: “No honest company would ask me for my credit card information!”

——————————————————————————————-

  • Customer: “Why do you guys keep kicking me offline?”
  • Tech Support: “Can you hold on a moment while I look at your account logs?”
  • Customer: “Sure, but please hurry.”
  • Tech Support: “Ok.” … “Hi, thanks for holding. It looks like our servers are reporting that either your modem is hanging up like a normal disconnect, or the connection is just being lost. This is usually attributed to line noise. I’d advise you get in touch with–“
  • Customer: “No, that is not what it is!”
  • Tech Support: “Well, that would normally be the first place I’d look. The modems are just losing touch with each–“
  • Customer: “All right. Apparently they do not tell you everything there. What I’m trying to look at are some Croatian newspapers to keep up with what’s going on in my old country. The government did not like me when I was there and they do not like me being in touch with my family and events there today.”
  • Tech Support: “Sir, the government there cannot disconnect you from the Internet here. You are in the United St–“
  • Customer: “My government was very powerful. They can do lots of things you would never imagine.”
  • Tech Support: “I’m sure in Croatia, the government would have the power to disconnect you from the Internet. The service providers are under their jurisdiction there. However, in America, there is nothing they could do to force our computers to knock you off line. You’re safe. I’m telling you, the first and foremost place I’d look is the telephone company to have them do what’s called a ‘data grade check’–“
  • Customer: “No, no, no. That is alright. I just wanted to know if you were doing it intentionally, or if it was them. Thank you. Thank you. Have a good night.”

VIRUS PARANOIA

  • Customer: “My hard disk has a virus!”
  • Tech Support: “How can you tell?”
  • Customer: “When I type ‘DIR’, it says ‘VIRUS <DIR>’ and some date stuff.”

—————————————————————————————-
Customer: “I need you to tell me what browser I am using. Is it Netscape 2.0? The reason I need to know is that I have read that Netscape 2.0 distributes a virus called Java.”

————————————————————————————–

  • First Man: “My laptop is running so slow and crashes all the time. I’m going to take it to the shop to check it for viruses.”
  • Second Man: “I don’t worry about viruses. Not many people know that viruses work in the back of the memory, and Windows is in the front of the memory. So it’s something else.”

——————————————————————————————

  • Customer: “I found a bug in my computer.”
  • Tech Support: “How do you know it’s really a bug?”
  • Customer: “I can see it.”
  • Tech Support: “You can physically see a bug in your computer?”
  • Customer: “Yes.”

TECH SUPPORT

  • Customer: “I have just received your software, but I have these plastic things, what are they?”
  • Tech Support: “Could you describe them please?”
  • Customer: “They are black plastic, thin, and square.”
  • Tech Support: “Anything else?”
  • Customer: “They have a metal bit on one edge.”
  • Tech Support: “Disks?”
  • Customer: “Well, I don’t know, do I? I just brought your package. What do I do with them?”

I see a horrible call ahead, and the customer is quite irate already.

  • Tech Support: “Put the disks in the drive.”
  • Customer: “What’s a drive?”
  • Tech Support: “The slot in your machine that looks just the right size for the disk.”
  • Customer: “Which machine?”
  • Tech Support: “Do you have a hard drive?”
  • Customer: “I have two boxes. One has a picture on it.”
  • Tech Support: “Put the first disk in, metal side first.”
  • Customer: “Ok. It’s gone in.”
  • Tech Support: “Go to the ‘start’ button, then run, then type ‘setup’.”
  • Customer: “My computer isn’t on. How do I turn it on?”
  • Tech Support: “Push the button by the drive to eject the disk, and press the button that says ‘power’ on the machine without the pictures on it.”
  • Customer: “Ok. Done.”
  • Tech Support: “Now put in the disk, go to start, run, and type ‘setup’.”
  • Customer: “Oh, it’s all working now. Thanks, but your software isn’t very easy to use, is it?”

—————————————————————————————–

  • Customer: “Right! I demand satisfaction!”
  • Tech Support: “I see. Well, I’m here to try and help you. What kind of problem are you having?”
  • Customer: “It’s not my problem! The ‘commuter’ I bought six weeks ago just won’t work! I can’t do a damned thing with it!”
  • Tech Support: “I see. Do you mean it won’t even switch on, or is it something else?”
  • Customer: “Don’t try to sandbag me! I know my rights!”
  • Tech Support: “Sir, could you explain the problem you are having so I can better help you with it?”
  • Customer: “I’ve called them all, AOL, Nildram, Tiscali, and none of them are any good.”
  • Tech Support: “Ok, so are you saying that you’re having problems getting on-line?”
  • Customer: “Look, it doesn’t work! I want satisfaction!”
  • Tech Support: “Ok, well I need to ask you some questions to help you with the problem.”
  • Customer: “Fine, but I doubt you’re going to fix it.”
  • Tech Support: “Is your modem installed and plugged into the phone line?”
  • Customer: “How would I know if it’s plugged in?”
  • Tech Support: (describes how the back of the machine looks and where the modem is)
  • Customer: “Yes, that’s just how mine looks, and it doesn’t work, so just accept that it’s broken!”
  • Tech Support: “Which cable did you connect the modem to the phone line with, sir?”
  • Customer: “I have to wire the stupid thing in?”

MORE INSANITY HERE


Unspeakably Stupid Story : Chicken Massacre

August 20, 2006

(Some names have been changed in this story in order to keep me from getting my ass sued off.)

I used to raise chickens back when I was a lad. It was my first business, an idea of Mom & Dad’s, and a good one, too. I learned all about business basics — they loaned me money for the chicks and feed, and provided a place for my 40 white leghorns, the “small” chicken coop on our property. It was called that because we had a “large” one too, which at one time housed 200 constantly pooping chickens. I was 10 years old then, and I guess you could say that I lived on a small farm, with its two pastures, barn and woodshed being a home to anywhere from 10 to 20 black angus cattle. But we never thought of it as a REAL farm because we also had one of those, an 80-acre beef cattle farm about a 20-minute drive away, which also served as headquarters for my Dad’s excavating business.

Anyway, the purpose of having the chickens was to sell the eggs. I would feed and water them daily, gather the eggs, clean the eggs, weigh the eggs, put them into cartons and sell them throughout the neighborhood on my little 3-speed bicycle. Some of the neighbors bought a dozen or two every week, and others stopped by when they saw my “EGGS 50 cents/DOZ.” sign out front.

Eventually, I got all the start-up costs paid off and began actually making a little profit. I think this took something like three years. A year or so later, the chickens began to “molt”, and their egg production began to slow. What was 40 eggs a day became a dozen, then down to about one a day. About this time, Mom & Dad took over the costs of feeding the worthless fowl.

And so it was that one night at dinner, Dad says, “Why don’t you go down and shoot all those chickens next time you get the chance?” I nodded in agreement, always willing to shoot at things with my .20-gauge Winchester single-shot even though it kicked like a mule and always left a huge bruise on my shoulder. Dad’s request was forgotten for a couple of days. Then one afternoon, with my parents gone, I was getting stoned down in the woodshed with my neighbor John Warthog. John lived up the road on a REAL farm, a huge dairy farm with hundreds of head of milk cows, which is what you’ll usually find on huge dairy farms. But the real story at Pleasant View Dairy was the not the cows, but the Warthogs whom owned it.

John’s grandfather, “Pop”, was senile long before I was born, and only went downhill from there. The worst nightmare was getting stuck behind him on the way home from church — he would drive his Jeep pick-up 10 MPH down the center of the road, oblivious to any honking, yelling, or ill-advised attempts at passing him. Blind in one eye to begin with, he had no business behind the wheel of ANYthing. When he died around 1970 or so, we felt a sense of relief more than anything.

John’s dad was a gregarious sort, a funny and upbeat fellow who won my admiration by buying a brand-new Olds Vista Cruiser every two years. They switched to Cadillacs later, after some of the kids moved out. But John’s dad, Chris, had this horrible, disfiguring “birthmark” over half his face. What it looked like was a huge purple scab, but if you knew him, you just got used to it. It was part of the Warthog Legacy: They all had some sort of birth defect or another, or got disfigured before adulthood somehow. Even Mrs. Warthog was obese, with a major, I mean MAJOR, case of “lazy-eye syndrome”. Then the kids:
First there was Nick, a bizarrely huge fellow who crashed so badly while bicycling that he had to have a series of pins permanently installed in his ankle, scuttling what surely would have been a successful wrestling career. Then Sandra, the only girl in the family, and as far as I can tell, pretty normal. Then came John, Pat and Roger, all three of which had horrible speech defects, some of which went away as they got older. John, the one my age, was just goofy. Pat managed to lose a front tooth in a sledding accident, then lost an eye when someone nailed him with a water balloon from a moving car in the high-school parking lot. Roger had the worst speech of all, sounding something like Dino the Dinosaur, only less comprehensible. I don’t know if he ever got better or not.

There are different theories about the Warthogs, some think “Pop” had some bad genes or something, but I suspect in-breeding.

Anyway, John and I are smoking dope in the woodshed one sunny afternoon when I remember that I was recently ordered to shoot the chickens. All right! I run to the house and grab my .20-gauge and a box of shells.

John and I decided to take turns: One would chase the chickens out of the little chicken-coop and into the open chicken-yard, where the other would blast away with the shotgun. Now, remember, John and I are 15 or 16 now, John’s blonde hair is beyond shoulder-length, and my frizzy brown mess is halfway down my back. We are blowing away chickens while shouting and hooting and running around with stoned glee.

We forgot about the new neighbors maybe 200 feet away from the chicken yard, the Mosleys, a nice Mormon family whom had moved in a few months earlier. There was Mr. Mosley, a gruff-looking sort who looked a lot like a PE teacher; Mrs. Mosley, a pretty mom; Brett, who you may remember from story #3 but whom we hadn’t really met yet (who would later shoot himself Hitler-style); his sister Shawna, who was pretty and would later get pregnant at 15; and young Todd Mosley, I guess we’ll never know how he turned out.

Anyway, when John and I pause for a moment in our chicken-massacre frenzy, we look up and there they are: all five Mosleys, looking at us, all lined up behind the glass door in their family room, and in order from tallest to shortest: Mr., Mrs., Brett, Shawna, and young Todd. They are all staring in disbelief at two apparently crazed pot-head hippies blowing away two or three chickens at a time with a .20-gauge shotgun! We laugh even harder as we corner and finish off the last of the freaked-out squawking birds, each shotgun blast sending a huge mass of feathers into the air!

By the time we got done, the Mosleys had drawn their curtains.

Homesite of Stupid Stories