Blogging Defined

So, Snot Rag comes over the other day. He’s been a friend for a while, and has this mucous condition, if you must know. The MonkeyWife isn’t really fond of him, on account of the bubbling snorts and the high-gloss sheen on his sleeve from countless wipings kinda grosses her out. So, she suddenly had some errands to run.

Me? I brought down a bottle of tequila. Not Three G’s … Snot Rag isn’t nearly worth that. Just some of the cheaper stuff I keep around for the unexpected drop-ins. Don’t give me that look, you do the same thing.

So, Snot Rag accepts a glass of the clear nectar, sees my laptop open, and goes over. He’s not the most tactful sonofabitch, but he’s a mate and all, so I tolerate him. My browser is set on my blog, because I constantly re-read my posts. I have to, because mine are so much more interesting than yours. It’s okay, you can admit it … I have.

Anyway, Snot Rag turns to me and says, “You do this stuff?”
”Yep,” I say, taking a sip of the lovely white liquor.
“How long?”
”Maybe a month or so.”
”Oh. Is there anything good on here?”
“Not really.”

And he starts to read my post about how I’m not a genius.

“This is stupid,” he says
“Yep,” I answer.
"You know, you're really not that funny," he says.
"I know," I answer, taking a small sip of my drink.

He keeps reading.

“Are all blogs as dumb as yours?” he asks.
“Well, I’m sure mine is dumber than most, but yeah, I think so,” I reply.

At that point, he starts to do some surfing, reading a few things here and there, flitting from page to page by clicking at the helpful “next blog” button on the upper right corner of the screen, all the while aspirating a surprising amount of nasal discharge. As he scans, his face begins to take the appearance of someone who has just eaten a very large helping of spoiled seafood.

“So, what’s the point of blogging?” he asks, with genuine curiosity.
“Whaddaya mean?” I answer after another slug of tequila. “It’s just a way for me to pop off. You know, ‘Flinging Poop’ and all.”
“But,” he stammers, unable to process it but still snorting like a steam train trying to overcome it’s stationary inertia. “But, some of it is so … stupid. I mean, this woman here, all she does is post recipes using cheese.”
“Yah,” I opine.
"This girl is babbling about her last date and the clothes she chose."
"Yah," I mention.
"This moron can't spell."
"Yah," I emapthize.
“And this guy, all he does is put up pictures of his kids, with stupid song lyrics. Song Lyrics!”
“Yah,” I offer.
“And this guy is just ranting incoherently about conspiracies and shadow governments.”
“Yah,” I add.
“Have you actually read some of these things!” he said, gesticulating like someone in the early stages of a seizure. “They’re written by half-wits who take themselves way too seriously!”
“Yah,” I nod.
“And anyone with a PC and Internet connection can just throw up a page and start spouting off, no matter how ignorant or illiterate they are?”
”Yah,” I say. “Democracy in action.”
“So, is that really it? Is blogging just a way for any moron to throw up anything they want, whether it makes any sense or needs to be said?”
“Yah,” I concede.
“And people take it seriously?”
"Very,” I say.

Snot Rag sat there for a moment, looking like a neanderthal trying to comprehend an internal combustion engine. "Let me see if I understand this," he finally said, taking a deep breath, and sucking up what sounds like a pint of particularly viscous mucous. "The whole point is to let any idiot publish any garbage?"

"Yah," I reply. "But, just like anything else, each blog is only as good or valid as the person posting at that time. Some stuff is pretty thought provoking, some is damned funny, some is insightful, and some ... well, a lot ... is just stupid. Some don't take it too seriously, and see it as a way to have fun, others get their jollies by being a prick, while others are pretty adamant and almost belligerent about a perceived sanctity of their words. Just like life."

Snot Rag leans back for a moment, then exhales. “Wow,” he concludes, draining the last of his drink, and wagging the empty glass at me for a refill. “Some people have way too much time on their hands.”

Indeed we do.

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