I don’t understand. I thought I told you, I’m not interested in spreading your shit across the internet. I’m not interested in your viruses, your links to hell, your intentions to “help me,”to make suggestions on how I can improve my blog, or how I can write more on things you like, how I can buy insurance from a website that at best features adware, at mid-best features malware, and at worst offers me and anyone who checks on me a virus. Fuck you.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
And yet, despite my worst intentions to send your asses, and the rest of you too, straight to the bottomless fiery pits of hell from whence you came, here you are, right on the comments section of MY fucking blog, telling me how much you like my blog but you think I could write better if I wrote what you thought I should write about, how I can make plans and be happy, how my subject matter is going to help you with your fucking presentation tomorrow, and how I should buy penis pills from somewhere, and you have just the weblink and virus to help me get them “cheaply.”
I wish I could actually believe you intended good things toward me. I wish I could actualy believe you really did think my writing was good and I wish you really did have a strategy to help me improve my writing, to make money, to be successful. Instead, these comments with their irritating, annoying spelling, punctuation and grammar errors are offensive.
I wish I were kidding. I wish it were more amusing. But it’s not. I’m insulted, I’m offended, I’m sick to fucking death of this bullshit. How DARE you!!? You ANNOYING SHITS.
Thank you, WordPress Administrators, for almost filtering that shit away. Almost.
Here. You get them too, I bet. They ask you to put their comments on your blog as innocuous comments, complimentary like they’re your friends, and then your friends see their comments and click on their links or their “blogs,” and they get the shit on THEIR blogs and on THEIR computers. FUCK THEM. And HEEEEERE THEY ARE!
Those names. “Jimmy.” “Aimee.” “Brodie.” “Chester.” “Merissa.” Those aren’t even their real names. They don’t match, they aren’t the truth, and they’re spreading lies. I KNOW they’re lying, so my first offense taken is that. But my second offense is the tactic. The asteistic comment. Oh, sorry, vocabulary word, “ASTEISM.” It’s a back-handed compliment that’s actually an intentional insult- the complinsult, or if you’re a fan of The Simpsons, “unsult.” It’s an abuse of the fine art of push-pull, because it’s done backward and with ill intentions.
Push pull is wicked awesome, if it’s done right. Done right, a person, say, Craig Ferguson, for example, says something that might be taken as unflattering, but then beautifully turns it around into something awesome, caring, loving and sweet. Or, Hayley Atwell, who does something here. In a couple of places, this interview takes turns that feel negative, maybe a little tense, but the jokes relieve the tension and make both host and guest both feel like everything’s all right. It’s one of my favorite interviews because they’re both funny and awkward and charming and playing the same flirty games with each other.
To the untouchable Hayley Atwell, a confession: From the safety of my bunker, I’m never coming out to meet you because you are one of the most frightening women I’ve ever seen. It’s me, really. It’s not you. I’m not charming like Craig. I’m much, much hotter than that. So, for everyone’s safety, for the good of humanity, for the very continuity of civilization as we know it, I’m staying right here, safe in my bunker. If I weren’t terrified, and if I had an infinite supply of money, I might be a creepy stalker. But I hope not. Celebrities have been ruined by creepy stalkers and that sucks. Celebrities live in an unnecessary fear of ordinary fans, because someone who looks like an ordinary fan might be the next creep who tries to push too far. These people get all delusional, thinking a celebrity is in love with them, inviting themselves into the scene in ways that are socially awkward at best, and at all other possible levels, downright creepy. There’s nothing wrong with seeing someone at a restaurant and saying hello on the way to your booth. There’s everything wrong with anything much more confrontational than that. Showing up at the person’s house, or worse, IN the person’s house without an invitation, watching them, or maybe worse, watching with your cameras, paparazzi, taking pictures or movies of a person without their consent, and so on, is just wrong and you should be arrested. Instead you find someone with too much money and not enough common sense, who pays you for doing that creepy shit. That’s the reason paparazzi are so brazen and aggressive: there’s money in being a creepy stalker with a camera.
I’m probably just jealous. Celebrity stalkers are somehow comfortable out there in the real world, sitting in trees and hiding in the shadows waiting for the celebrity to go to the store or go out to eat at a restaurant or whatever, and you’re waiting for the chance to take a picture or make a movie you can sell to the “press,” or post on the internet. You think you’re a “journalist,” but you’re not. You are creepy and you insert yourself between ordinary fans and celebrities who just want to live their lives and be left alone. Celebrities are normal people most of the time; they do normal things. They eat breakfast, they go to work, they go home, they go to bed. They might go to the store to buy groceries or a light bulb. They might go to a restaurant or a museum. Just like everyone else. We ordinary fans, if we had the courage to venture out of the bunker, might like to say hello, ask a question, pass along our compliments or ordinary admiration, ask for an autograph or a photo, offer a quick hug, and go our way. But celebrities are at least a little afraid of us normal people because of creepy people who want to break into celebrities homes and steal and sell their ordinary shit like it was something more special than our ordinary shit because it’s been touched by a celebrity. It’s not like these celebrities are like Jesus or anything. Craig, though… It’s just that he’s a writer, I’d love to pretend we were friends for ten seconds while he autographed my copy of his book.
I suppose you could argue that I’m just jealous because I can’t even get out of the bunker to have the remotest possibility of so much as saying hello to a celebrity such as Craig or Hayley, not that they would just show up at my local grocery store. That interview was just cute in so many ways. I’d feel so much more awkward. One of us, brilliant and beautiful and trying to do something normal like going to the grocery or the book store, accidentally happening to meet someone who might become a supportive friend, the other, uncomfortable about the whole circumstance and behaving awkwardly during their “brush with greatness.”
I may be brilliant and beautiful, but I’m not “normal” anything. I exaggerate my abilities sometimes. I try the push pull on my readers sometimes, but I suck at it, so it’s not like would notice the effort. Plus, I’m married. And you? I’m terrified; you’re frightening. The thought of what kind of trouble we could stir up if I were a real person with the actual normal courage it would take to leave the safety of the bunker… If we ever had the weirdly twisting fate to meet, recognize each other, strike up a friendship, spend time with each other outside of the blogosphere…FRIGHTENING. You scare the living shit out of me. But you know I’m only scared of anyone who’s overly sexy and completely fucking hot. See, THAT is a push-pull, and weirdly, I mean every word. You ARE completely fucking hot; you know who you are. And that frightens me in ways you can’t possibly understand. And I love you. It’s the complete truth.
But, to the liars, I have a few things to say, at the risk of wasting my breath. You think like these damned stalkers. You are out there, not keeping a normal distance away from us, but inserting yourselves into our lives at awkward opportunities. You program popups that show up unwanted while we’re surfing the web. You program your creepy adware and malware and viruses and then put teaser advertisements out there as clickbait. And you pose as someone we might actually like if you weren’t a fucking stalker and post flattering comments on our blogs hoping we’ll let your comments go onto our blogs so our friends will click on your shit to find out who you are, only to get advertisements for insurance, or boner pills.
I don’t need any “male enhancements,” Merissa, so fuck you. Or rather, whatever the diametric opposite of that is. My “content” IS “engaging,” but it’s never “engaging” with you. I don’t need boner pills, Merissa, and I don’t want anything to do with you or your product line. My equipment all works just fine, and I’m quite “enhanced” enough, if Mrs M. is of an encouraging spirit and the kids stay on their side of the door. Sometimes, even if Mrs M. DOESN’T encourage me, which is frequent. From what I’ve read, that’s a symptom, apparently, of my fine health downstairs, and my lack of the same upstairs. She has a normal appetite. I have an insatiable one.
And you, “Chester,” or “Frieda,” or “Antonello,” at the risk of hurting your feelings, you don’t have my permission to lift my “perfedt” content for free and use it for your “prssentation,” plagiaristic fucker.
Thanks for offering potential suggestions, “Jack,”but I want to write what I decide to write. I’m not interested in your helpful advice. I write for my own sanity, not to satisfy your appetite for brilliance. If I were “happy,” I might “make plans,” but they wouldn’t involve you. If I were “happy,” I sure as fuck wouldn’t write like this.
“Aimee,” you’re the closest I ever came to accepting spam as a comment for my blog, but alas, your comment was flagged by the staff of helpful autobot filters at WordPress. I’m honestly flattered, but I don’t want to buy a new phone, or car, or car parts, or whatever it is you’re selling on your website, and I don’t know if any of my readers want to either. If they do, if you did normal “advertising,” they might find you online. Were you not flagged, I might have just accepted the compliment, but my car, junky as it may be, is all I can afford right now, and honestly, my car and my phone felt insulted that you said they wasn’t as good as yours. So, softly and gently, “Aimee,” go fuck your phone and your car and parts and your money too.
And last, “Jimmy,” or “Corina,”I’ve never read anything so formulaic and fake as a compliment in my life, and I’m not writing because it resonates with people. I’m writing because if I didn’t write I might do destructive things to relieve my stress. And if I did destructive things as a habit instead of writing things that resonate with readers, I might need a new car or car parts, or worse, I might need boner pills to maintain the …addiction.
No, thank you. If you could just stop with the reverse push-pulls, stop openly confessing you’re planning on stealing my creative shit, stop peddling your car crap and your phones, stop pushing your penis pills, and stop telling me I’m good but I could be great if I bought into your method or wrote what you think I ought to write.
Oh, shit. I almost forgot I was supposed to write about mammogrammers. Well, that’s a little awkward, since I’m a guy. But what the hell: You’re another of the worst kind of photographers. Taking pictures of women’s boobs is one thing, but you take it to a whole new level of awful. You convince women that you’re hurting them to help them, smash the poor woman’s junk into your torture devices, and THEN snap your pictures. At least you’re not selling that to publications or posting THAT to the internet.
I can’t lie. I love women, and everything about them. They’re beautiful. But I think if I’m going to behave awkwardly with anyone, or try to catch anyone in a moment of secret intimacy, it’ll be Mrs. M. And no, internet, there will never be any pictures of any of that.