Oh hi! Didn’t see you there. It’s difficult to see anything beyond The Elf Wax Times’ blinding white flurry of success, but we’ve got a finger on the pulse, and we hear you asking yourselves:
How can I get more people to read my [worthless] blog?
It’s a two-step process.
- Don’t be such a fucking douchebag. Seriously.
- And don’t start a blog.
A long time ago, I was sitting online, my ass was numb, I was talking to my friend and I felt like I needed to break the uncomfortable silence, so I said “fuck people with blogs” to which my friend responded, “Nobody cares what they have to say.”
“Of course not,” I said. “That’s why they start blogs.”
And that’s the kind of fucking genius thought-dissemination that absorbs your blog’s readership before their sunken eyes even leave The Elf Wax Times: your puss-blog about how you don’t get any puss because you’re a giant, throbbing, cheese-flushing pussy is simply not entertaining, and everybody knows it already. Some blogs are so bad that it boosts our readership when people come here in need of healing.
- Maybe it’s because you don’t have any insights beyond what simpletons uncover within an episode of Touched by an Angel.
- Maybe you really don’t get any pussy and you try to post about it on the internet, but your half-assed approach to writing fails to capture even the wildest sexual imagination of, say, a pubescent child, who, possibly having never seen the internet before, couldn’t even pay twenty-five seconds of attention to your sex-laden drivel if it were printed off and handed to him to read as an alternative to restriction ad infinitum. In fact, for most folks, reading your blog is probably the equivalent to tasting some cold, stale piss.
But we’re talking about children here. All children are retarded, so they’re a bad example and I should not have used them; if for no other reason than people hate to be reminded of children. Check back next year for an apology.
Conversationally, The Elf Wax Times reporters, staff writers, editors, and our glorious masters are intellectually potent, and should we have a moment in our busy day of cooking up and serving the truth, we need to read thought-inspiring equivalencies of miniature Cat’s Cradles, should we get the chance to read anything at all (usually we have our assistants read to us as we masturbate to rare, uncensored Asian pornography).
So, to us, your Tucker Max attempt at a blog leaves a taste in the mouth of cold piss, too. That is to say, we see through your attempts to piss in our mouths from behind your dual-core PC and you fail to even keep it warm, much less hit your target, whatever that may be. Nobody knows what you’re trying to accomplish. You’re worthless and you suck.
Let’s briefly drop the pissing metaphor for a moment to talk more about why people hate blogs.
I hate blogs because they fail to properly inform. The Elf Wax Times takes an ambivalent stance on blogging, because it is not officially recognized as a medium of any form. A blog is simply something you accidentally click on Google because it contains the most keywords in the most relevant order contained in your search. Maybe you host a copyrighted picture nobody else has, and so people click it, save it, and never see your site again. In all likelihood, if you think people are visiting your blog because your “statistics say so,” look closer and you’ll see that accidental clicks account for at least 99% of your “readership,” and the only reason copyright lawyers have not yet contacted you is because no human is actually looking at your “site.” [Editor’s Note: blogs are not real websites.]
Nobody is looking at your perspective on the world. Nobody is sharing in your unique, subjective experience of reality in the abstract. Nobody is taking the journey as your narrative prose degrades into broken poetry with faulty rhyme scheme followed by ellipses and a question mark. Nobody feels the way you do, because your mechanism for emotion is so completely distorted that you actually believe people are reading your fucking blog. Normal people are not as self-important as blog “authors.” [Editor’s Note: blogs are not authored by anyone because authors write for a living, and bloggers do not.] Nobody will ever identify with a blogger.
Now, I know I’m just farting into the wind here, so we’re going to have to break it down another level.
You write a blog, you have one. You maintain one, as you put on your resumé or MySpace page. No cute girls are reading it. Maybe there are two people who make comments on your posts from time to time, under the unspoken arrangement that you reciprocate. One’s a fat chick, the other’s your online friend who once agreed over AIM that the government sucks. You put a lot of time into your CSS code, your margins are perfect, the padding fucking fits and you feel good because you’ve got shit all figured out, so this doesn’t apply to you – right? Oh boy. How glad I am not to be you. How thankful I am not to be so misled, so delusional, so willing to lie to myself as you; so wrong as you are.
I’m talking to you, blogger. Blogosphere. The bastion of truth–shit, I mean, self-importance. Your thoughts are impure, your opinions invalid, broadly unsubstantiated by anything other than your George W. Bush “gut feeling” fueled by the insights of Neil Cavuto, or name-a-CNN-pundit.com.
Your vision is filtered through orange glasses or red, depending on where we’re at on the Terror Alert scale. At best, you’re the unseen, unheard afterthought of a political mechanism – lost to all keepers of history but your own web browser. At worst, you serve the political machine as they reference your voice among millions in the blogosphere, speaking for you, making determinations about you, without reading you, or knowing you, or seeing you, or even consciously being aware that someone like you might actually exist.
And we here at The Elf Wax Times for once share their anti-sentiment. So without further ado, fuck you and your little blog, too.
The boy’s severely-battered corpse is thought to be somewhere in the James River, a popular dump-point used by the holographic chemical plant Allied Chemical, the shell of a company who once allied with Capitalism to dump kepone, a popular ‘cool’cinogen used in roach poison, into the James River, which consequently flowed straight into the kepone-intolerant nervous systems of many workers in Hopewell – a move Mayor Jones applauds enthusiastically as the James River’s claim to fame. The forty-year poisoning of Hopewell factory workers marks the country’s first environmental disaster that would later give rise to unprecedented shirking of responsibility employed by corporate entities across America.