"Bloggers are dropping like Flies!"
"The sky is falling! The sky is falling!'
GHAAAAA!
I'm in panic mode: red lights and klaxons, I'm tramping the halls (I usually pay somebody else to do that): running and circling. My hands waving in the air like I really do care. It's a no holds barred panic attack, complete with Rob spinning and flailing like a chicken with fingers and hands waving over her missing head.
Flies! Chickens! Bloggers! Oh my. Three things the world can replace with an egg, a piece of dead meat, and a vat of coffee. In two paragraphs I've identified with all three!
AHHHHHH!
Cosmo's got his paw on 911 just in case. He's trying to bark me down. "Hey Rob, you better not hurt yourself. I don't have an opposable thumb here, and it sure would be a shame and all if I pressed at the emergency button, and got 1-900-SPANK-ME from speed dial instead. I'm just saying, you might want to relax a bit. Excuse me, all this activity reminds me, I need to lick myself."
Spank me on speed dial? How did he know….
I take a breath. I don't know why I'm panicked, it's only bloggers. Sure I am one, but I have a day job, I should be fine. Besides, "Dropping like flies?" I watch one buzz by. I've never seen one drop. Oh I've found corpses, but everything dies, flies just have the higher initial population. The breed like—Well the breed a lot.
By comparison, if an individual snowflake slams to the hood of a 73 Mustang, it's genocide for a species of snowflake that ever looked alike. Interestingly enough, it can hit the hood of an AMC Gremlin. Nothing happens. That car has been dead longer than the average US marriage. Ok, so I'm optimistic about the US marriage. Sue me. Not really, I have a blogger's income. You won't get anything. Ask MyUnwife: very disappointing.
Apparently bloggers are reaching snowflakey status too. Not the unique quality, but in death quantity. Oh, I know, I know, I'm a blogger; I offer a quality you can't find anywhere else, but so does the plague, and nobody stands in line for that either.
See, the comparing bloggers to fly droppings, that came from a newspaper. Those are real writers. Everything they say is backed up by tablets of gossamer. Moses was the first documented news reporter, he got his stories from a small brush fire. They tried recreating that in the 60s with the help of acid. No luck. Now they rely on things they call facts, and we in faith accept that it's true. According to the article on my computer, I'm dead, or at least on my way.
No Way!
Yeah, they're comparing blogging to the sweatshops of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. We're typing our fingers into nubs for the profit of an corporate dictator. Soon we'll need thimbles to protect our digits. You'll know bloggers from the constant clacking of metal on plastic. Where's Hoffa when you need him? I bet he's buried in a blog somewhere.
That's right. I'm waiting for some charismatic Snowball or Napoleon to unite the blogging proletariat so we can throw off our Intelemouse tethers. We'll call ourselves Web Entertainment and Blogging Liberation Organization Wordlwide! We already have a website, and if we strike, the world will yawn at the void, pour their coffee and skip straight to the porn.
So why do we do it? Why do bloggers work so hard, and is it really any different than any other job? For me it's an outlet. I write. Publisher's won't buy my work, but I can foist my words on captive readers like toddler mommies with laden spoons of strained spinich.
"open wide…"
According to some statistics I just made up, I might as well start packing my coffin now. I'm a blogger, I'm male, and I'm divorcee. Hot damn, I got the trifecta! Then again, I don't smoke, and I have a pet; according to the surgeon general and a Purina commercial, these things counterbalance the negatives.
I read the blogademic article further; I wanted to know warning signs. Apparently, the news qualifies "Dropping like flies" as two. They say we exaggerate. Two bloggers. Two. Two guys died in the last 6 months: one 50, one 60. That's not a crisis, that's just lions thinning the herd. I bet these guys weren't even divorce. Ok, I'm not taking odds on that.
But two? That's it? I drop my hands from the panic position. The newspaper did mention a third guy who had had a heart attach, but despite their best efforts, he lived. Bloggers, flies, chickens and divorcees, they try to write us off, but we're still here. One day we'll reach the cockroach level of recognition for survival and respect.
I am a blogging survivor hear my war cry! "I'm in love with Rob!"
Ok, maybe the war cry isn't battle ready yet, but 'Bzzz" and "Cluck! Cluck!" just didn't have the same pizzazz. See, I've lived through a divorce, and I'll live through blogging with my own special Rob flare, even if it kills me.
Some bloggers have minds like steel traps, I just work with what God gave me in my head.
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