This is not a blog

Before I begin this online journal of mine I would like to make it clear that I regard bloggers as being one the most vile sorts of people to ever walk upon the face of the earth. They are insecure and weak; desperate for attention and forever pleading outwards for validation from their audience. They disgust me. Their words are nothing more than digital garbage; a degradation of the informational nature of the World Wide Web and a complete waste of both time and bandwidth. I hate them.

Of course, it would be easy to pity bloggers, sitting alone at their desk and bureaus, typing out their latest screed of drivel and forever hoping that someone might care what they think of the latest illustrated comic book superhero and his jolly boy companion if they weren’t so awful in every conceivable way. They are the living embodiment of the faulted trait of self absorption. Their text is a perfect example of all that is superficial, petty and inane in the world. A person of reasonable intellect would find it impossible to regard bloggers as anything more than the dung rolling insects that they are without also completely losing respect for themselves in the process.

Bloggers are just terrible, loud and obnoxious people. They are the drunken louts, the no account hoodlums and the sideshow circus freaks of the cyberspace carnival. They demonstrate wanton ignorance with every post they make. They laugh at pictures of poor unfortunate animals that have been anthropomorphized against their will, they share digitally rendered videos of apes doing awful things with their penises and almost every single one of them has some sort of mild form of autism.

Studies should probably be done on the complete lack of social functionality that’s inherent in the world’s population of bloggers but unfortunately they are so wretched that no scientist to date has been able to endure being around them for a long enough time to observe their habits. What little there is to be known about them is that they mainly eat from bags, rarely bathe and almost never have sex, ever. The world is a darker place with them in it.

And so, with that in mind, I have decided against becoming a blogger. Instead, you may consider me to be an autobiographer and this, an online and real-time memoir of my life. It will be filled with comedy and pathos, thoughts and observations as well as pictures of animals doing human-like things that I think that others might find amusing to look upon in a light hearted manner.

I will share with you my day to day existence in all of its dynamic glory, documenting everything from my love of a good shampoo to the simple joys of drinking beer from a plastic cup at a Renaissance fair. I will make you laugh with stories about my charming nature and I will cause you to cry with tales of woe as I try to repair things around my house. I will keep you on the edge of your seat as I worry about my thinning hairline and I will make you think with angry rants about stuff that I’ve seen on the news.

You, dear audience, will be treated to an amplified and caffeinated version of the essence of what it is to live as me and I welcome you to be thrilled at all of the wonder and spectacle that that entails. In fact, I already consider you to be my friends and, while I may never want to hang out with any of you (ever) I sincerely hope that each of you desperately wants to hang out with me.

I hope that our relationship gives each of us something in return. Be it a sense of superiority as a writer or the total amazement of his audience as they witness his virtuoso talents, I think that there is value in us getting to know one another through my stories. All I ask in return is that we never consider this to be a blog, or I (the writer) to be a blogger. Bloggers are the bottom dwelling scum of the internet.