
Your guess is as good as mine.
1. No blog other than SUPERBLOG!! is to be worshipped.
2. Thou shalt not try to copy the wisdom of SUPERBLOG!!
3. We fucking rule.
4. Thou shalt not take the name of SUPERBLOG!! in vain.
(He that blasphemeth the name of SUPERBLOG!!, he shall surely be put to death.)
5. Don't become a fucking vegan or any shit like that.
6. Thou shalt not kill, except for the enemies of SUPERBLOG!!
7. Thou shalt not commit adultery unless you're shitfaced and don't get in the way between us and our SUPERBLOG!! bitches..
8. Disrespect your parents if they deserve it.
9. Enjoy Coke.
10. Don't comment things in order to promote your own stupid blog that in no way can measure up to SUPERBLOG!!
Seeing as how our number of daily hits dropped like a rock about the same time I started writing my novel, you might be forgiven for asking out loud whether it wouldn't be smart of us to drop the book-writing stuff and focus on what SUPERBLOG!! does best, namely posting pics of Carla Gugino's boobs. Then again, you might not, because that's LOSER TALK. SUPERBLOG!! has never been about the tits, it's always been about the despair.
So here's the latest installment of the Book of Koala.
Soon you will experience the full blogging powers of Uncle Sammy! Just hours ago I unpacked my newest computer and as soon as I have mastered its awesome capabilities I will be able to blog faster, better and sexier!! You just wait and see...
Until then, here's a little propaganda movie about why the Swedish way of selling booze rocks so hard. Pay attention and you'll see drunken people from Falun.
This is Klovnen Knut (in English: Knot the Clown), the famous Norwegian showman. He is to the right in the picture. To the left is a screaming baby.
This SUPERBLOG!! post is dedicated to my friend Agnes.
Love Calculator results
These are the results of the calculations by Dr. Love:
a monkey [heart] a donkey
88 %
That's what mom taught me. Always trust your mommy. Never trust the lying Russian people responsible for these wax figures. Commies are always deceiving and they also want to feed upon your flesh. But the exhibition with the scary figures can be worth a visit because they claim (the commie bastards) that:
Visitors, however, can also learn how to roll a “proper” joint /
Learn more about drugs here, here, here, here and here.
Yeah, this is a novel I'm writing, you see. It will be done before November ends or it will die a thousand deaths. Love it or leave it.
Chapters 1-3
Chapters 4-14
Chapter 15
Aside from changing Superman's line and the text of Lois's diary entry, I have made a number of subtle alterations on this cover. Can you spot all the changes? A cookie for you if you can! Well, can you?
Previous Evil Comics:
#1: Superblog!!'s Pal, Jimmy Olsen (cover)
#2: Superblog!!'s Girl Friend, Lois Lane (cover)
#3: Jimmy Olsen's Fist of DOOM! (cover)
#4: Marco Polo's Journey of Fucking, Part One
#5: The Origin of Superblog!!, Part One
#6: The Origin of Superblog!!, Part Two
#6½: Countdown to Absolutely Static, Hayfever-Inducing Normality (cover)
#7: Superblog!!'s Bitch, Lois Lame (cover)
#8: Marco Polo's Journey of Fucking, Part Two
Chapter 15: The Fireman, Engulfed in Flames
See the fireman.
See the fireman burn.
Burn, fireman, burn.
Today I attended a lecture in clinical sexology. I learned a lot!! Sex is supposed to be fun for your partner too and there's a thing called foreplay! Most important of all: I learned how to cure impotence in 5 easy steps. The only string attached is that you really need a partner to practice these steps with and since most of our readers are lonely geeks I have no high hopes for you. But hey! Who knows! There's always prostitutes!! Send me a mail when you've hooked up with that special someone and I'll teach you how to get a boner. Oh, I also know a lot of things about vaginism now and I even know things about speculums.
Vaginism is perfectly recognizable as opposed to an unusual phenomena. It is the impossibility of having sexual intercourse as result of painful spasm of the muscles in the lower third part of the vagina.This is a book I'm writing in my spare time. I started yesterday.
Chapter 4
At the same time as all that other stuff was happening (exactly what is impossible to remember, unless you have the memory of an elephant, of course) there was a contest for who could eat the largest amount of boots filled with dung. The previous redord holder, from last year, the year 2004, had just died in a mysterious accident that involved walking, talking hams. Yes, HAMS that seemingly came alive in some strange manner and walked around, scaring people. Fucking lousy hams! They should be eaten, not walking around scaring people.
Is what Jambola thought as he was standing in line at the airport, trying to eat an ice-cream (AUTHOR'S NOTE: obvious phallic symbolism). The plane went to Spain.
Suddenly Jambola was in Spain. It was raining cats and dogs and gods and birds and turds and words and drums and scum and whipped cream and whipping boys and leatherboys with whips and sexual imagery (AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you've been paying attention during the last few paragraphs, you'll have seen that Jambola has been established as homosexual. Please remember this as it will be important in later chapters.)
Suddenly a comet fell down out of the clear blue sky and seemingly killed Jambola! But he wasn't really dead, only sleeping. Jambola looked very peaceful while he slept, but still, somehow, full of life and vigor and vigour and liquor. The comet was made of cheese, just like God. God is a cheddar. It's in the Bible, you know. (Luke 20:34)
Chapter 5
On a very distant planet, far from our own planet, the planet Earth, Terra Firma, Tellus to some, was another planet, very distant from ours. That planet was the planet Maloppus. Maloppus was heaven on Earth, except it wasn't on Earth (it was on Maloppus). Everyone walked around blissful as fuck, full of bliss and shit. That was because they were doing a lot of drugs. The moral of the story in this chapter is that drugs are the Answer. (And I spell Answer with a capital A to make sure you realize I'm talking about the ultimate answer, not any fucking kind of stupid answer you picked up in a bar at 3.00am because you thought she could bring you happiness. She couldn't, of course, and you should have realized by know that that approach can't ever work. What is the answer? Give me a D! Give me an R! Give me a U! Give me an M! Give me an S. DRUMS.).
Chapter 6
"At this rate we'll never get to the end of this stupid novel", Mrs Asshole said to her husband, the highly respected shitfarmer Mr Asshole (Richard to his friends). They were reading a novel together, you see. Mr Asshole was blind, blind as a bat, blind as Justice, blind as other poetic likenesses and similes and metaphores and stuff I can't be bothered to think up right now. And so he couldn't read on his own, so Mrs Asshole (her real name was Laura) had to read to him, every fucking night. She thought they would never get to the end, and that is basically the concern she was voicing just as we enter her remarkable story, which is what we are doing just exactly pretty much now, at this point in time.
The book she was reading to him was The SUPERBLOG!! Novel by K. Mentala, a retired plumber from Wisconsin. It was a thick novel, but really juicy. Filled to the brim with full-page illustrations of chicklets licking each other, and other pornographic and/or erotic images.
"What makes you say that, dear?" asked the pathetic and ugly fucking stupid goddamn lousy piece of Mr Asshole (dickless wimp). At this, Mrs Asshole was angered. She picked up the same knife Jambola used to kill Bobo with and shoved it into his sternum. Mr Asshole died later, at hospital.
But first he was rushed to hospital!
"We're doing everything we can to save him!" shouted the ambulance driver into Mrs Asshole's ear as they were cruising Sunset Boulevard in the limo, pretending to look for the hospital. But it was useless. She was deaf with sadness.
Chapter 7
Look, I've written around 1,500 words, and I'm starting to realize it's not that fun. It's a hassle and a burden. Google Calculator informs me that I'll have to write 3 571.42857 words every FUCKING day to meet the goal of 50,000 words in 14 days. That's more than twice as much as I've manage today (granted, it hasn't taken long), but I'm already bored shitless. Maybe I should cut my losses.
Chapter 8: A New Dawn
My skeleton glows with a healthy green hue. Look out, World, The Creepiness is starting to set in.
Mrs Asshole fucked the ambulance driver in the car, and also in the ear. She used a sort of kind of whatitcalled, thing. You know what I mean! Chicks insert them into their vaginas in lieu of dicks! What the fuck... You know how irritating it is when a common word, a word you've known since you were a kid (you probably learned it in kindergarden, if you didn't already know it in the uterus), when it just disappears and you can't... a DILDO. A fucking dildo. Why in the holy name of our Lord and Savior, Jebus Kreist, couldn't I remember what a dildo is called? It's called a dildo, stupidhead!
So Mrs Asshole inserted the dildo into the ambulance driver's ear a few times, to give him pleasure. That's really all I wanted to say, it wasn't intended to be a huge part of the story (or even this chapter), it just became important when I couldn't think of the fucking word.
"Ouch!" said the ambulance driver, a nameless gentleman from Toronto, Canada (a town full of pigs and prigs). "I'm bleeding! That didn't give me pleasure at all! Why did I think it would?"
"I don't know", said Mrs Asshole, stupidly.
"It must have been the drugs", whined the ambulance driver, looking down at his toke and holding his injured ear. Blood was dripping from it, and not in a sexy way.
"Now don't you go blaming the drugs, Mister!" shouted Mrs Asshole. "They give you bliss! Everyone knows that! Why, way up in the sky there's even a far away planet called... not Blisstonia, that's from The Simpsons... (AUTHOR'S NOTE: I probably ripped off the idea of a planet full of bliss from The Simpsons. But it's a common belief in many religious religions.) It's called MALOPPUS, the Planet That Gives You Bliss. And the people there, they never fucking whine. Because they're happy and full of life and love and so on."
"Yeah, I need to get to a hospital", Mr Hufkspsladk said. (That was his name all along, but don't expect me to repeat it. From now on, he will go under the alias Mr X, because it's faster to type, and also because you should shut the fuck up with your stupid criticism of my brilliant story. It's brilliant, you fuck!)
"I REALLY need to get to a hospital", Mr X said, as he laid down and died. (See, I didn't see that coming. If I had, I'd probably have gone with "Mr Hufkspsladk" (it's Czech) just now, seeing as how I probably don't have to type it a lot in the rest of the story, seeing as how the character is now dead as a can of spam, from a shot in the back. Yeah, he was shot, I just didn't tell you until now.)
P.S. Mrs Asshole fucked his corpse. D.S.
Chapter 9: The Dangerous Giraffe
"Boy, it sure is mild outside today".
The speaker was Dr Constantinople, a physics professor from the tiny, unknown town of Antwerp.
"In my native Antwerp, it's never this mild. Boy, is it mild today."
His assistant was startled. "But Dr Constantinople! James! May I call you James?"
"Certainly, but my real name is Judah."
"James, Doctor, there's a horrible thing that perhaps you don't realize and probably you don't, no."
"What is that, my dear boy or girl or whatever the fuck you are? (Assistants come in all genders, after all.)"
"It's after 7pm! It's not TODAY any longer, it's TONIGHT. You should have said, 'it sure is mild TONIGHT'!"
"Sweet Jebus, you're right, boy (girl)! An inforgivable error on my part. I'm stupid! I'm ugly! Kill me with a scythe!"
And the boy/girl/whatever did as she/he/it/they/them/huh was instructed and killed the Professor, no, wait he was a Doctor, killed the Doc with the scythe. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: The topic of gender balance is one we'll be returning to in later chapters. Also: hamsters.)
Chapter 10: Drama at the Book Fair
"How can you write so much stupid drivel?" said the really hot chick, as she approached the good-looking but kind of shy author at the book fair. He was signing books or something.
"The secret is not caring", I answered, staring into her eyes in a creepy manner. They both (especially the foxy chick) realized they were in love, and would have sexual intercourse later that afternoon. Shit, I meant that the AUTHOR said that thing about the secret. Not me. I'm just the omniscient narrator, totally disconnected from this story. No character in this story is supposed to represent me. No. Never.
"Yeah, but how do you do it?" the chick said, sultrily.
"I'm channeling the gods. In particular one God, the evil but kind-hearted God of Fucking Things Up, PANJO the three-headed snake!
"Panjo!" said the girl! "He's my favorite!" And then she dropped her clothes, and they fucked on the floor.
Hmm. If there's a recurrent theme to these stories, it's that I really need to get laid. I just noticed.
Chapter 11: Hedgehog
Suddenly everything exploded in a flash of light. A lonely little antropomorphic hedgehog (you can't go wrong with animals) was preparing a breakfast consisting of toast and coffee and more toast and coffee and tea and eggs and bacon and salmon and cerial and milk and honey and marmelade (three different kinds) and even more coffee and sugar and orange juice, and PCP, angel dust.
"Gosh", said the hedgehog, "Angel dust sure is good with coffee."
He spent the rest of the morning jerking off and doing the dishes, in that order. Now that little hedgehog isn't quite as fucking cute as you imagined him being when this chapter started, is he? See how appearances can be deceiving?
There was a knock on the door. The hedgehog hid his marmelade (it had won prizes and was worth BILLIONS on eBay) and opened the door, cautiously. All the while he held a can of mace, prepared to squirt it in the eyes of the visitor, if it was a cop, or just someone he didn't like. But luckily, the visitor turned out to be another antropomorphic animal, his best friend Crocodile Bill!
"Crocodile Bill! said the hedgehog, startled as startled can be. "When did you get out of prison?"
Crocodile Bill smiled ominously. "I escaped just last night", he said as a drew his long, sharp knife.
"Oh shit", said the hedgehog. "You're not gonna stab me in the eye, are you, Bill?"
"Of course I am", said Crocodile Bill.
And stab he did. Not once or twice or even three times, but again and again, long into the night. And if he hasn't found anything better to do with his time, he's probably still right there, stabbing away. That is, unless he's died from starvation. Do you think it might have occurred to him to try some of the hedgehog's breakfast? (Not the marmelade, of course, because the hedgehog hid that very well, but the rest of the food is probably still right there on the table. The milk is starting to turn sour, maybe. The cereal is all lumpy and disgusting. Meanwhile, Crocodile Bill is all too busy stabbing to notice what goes on all around him. It was just the same way back in the 1980s, when Crocodile Bill had a family. He just couldn't find the time to talk to his wife and play with his children. He was always too busy stabbing. Stabbing, stabbing. Now, what kind of life is that, I ask you? Eventually his wife grew tired and took the kids and moved to Seattle. But when Crocodile Bill realized what had happened he got REALLY mad and took the next flight to Seattle where he of course butchered his family.
He regretted that later, partly because he missed his family a little bit, but mostly because he was sent to jail for 45 years. The only reason he got out is because a cellmate helped him hide in the laundry. And then he went directly to his best friend the hedgehog's house, and what did he do? He stabbed him! Not once, or twice, or three times, even. But repeatedly. We all thought he had changed in jail. You know, he found religion inside (a weird religion dedicated to the pursuit of bliss), and we were sure he was all through with the stabbing. But he's outside for five minutes, and he just falls back into his old, bad patterns. Why is that? I blame the parents.
MORAL: Stabbing can be counter-productive.
Chapter 12: Back in 1989
Inexplicably, Bobo had started his own Internet company and was now trying to take over the world, or at least the country. (The country being Uruguay. Bobo was travelling in Africa as a missionary for the One True Faith (found in its original form only on the faraway planet MALOPPUS). Now he was living in Montevideo, in a small hostel just outside of Montevideo, in central Montevideo. Anywhere, really.)
The walk that tore him to shreds was the same walk that filled his life with meaning. It was when he was out walking that he noticed how everything seemed to be made of mist. The trees, the forest, the buckets of sand, the children playing in the park, even the mist itself was mist.
Bobo exhaled. "I have to go home and polish the floor."
"With your tongue!", cried the leper.
"With my tongue", Bobo grimly confirmed.
Chapter 13: The Fireman Can Take a Joke
"How can you see that a car is from Poland?"
"You, er, you can see it on the, uh, the polish. The polish. Get it?"
"Ah, 'polish' slash 'Polish'. I get your meaning", said the fireman. He walked away without a word, never once looking back.
The fireman was one of a select breed who was travelling the country, starting fires. One time, he had even doused himself in gasoline, and tried to get his wife to light him up.
"This way", he had said to his wife (while dripping all over the kitchen floor), "I'll be a REAL fireman". And then he had grinned his toothless grin, which always creeped her out.
Chapter 14: The Contempt of Astronaut Pete
Gazing down from the Moon, Astronaut Pete felt nothing but contempt for his fellow man. "Look at them down there!", he said to no one in particular. "Scurrying about with not a care in the world!
What do they know about REAL suffering? Puny ants! I should spit on them from up here, so that the saliva will travel through the atmosphere, increasing in velocity and growing ever huger, finally reaching the ground and overflooding the entire planet!"
With that, he removed his helmet and promptly exploded.
I don't feel like blogging though. But I am. Again. What's wrong with me? Nothing. Whatever. That novel Koala think he's gonna write sucks. Not. I think it's allright. I bet Bobo will come back and rape that knife guys ass. Big time. I like to write. Short sentences. Because my English, you know. It sucks. Not really. Once upon a time I dated a girl from Chicago. In Chicago. Not Gooooo. Another girl from the windy city of broad shoulders and so on and so fort blah blah. We broke up. She was way to bossy. But before we broke up she mentioned that my skills in the English languages were awesomely. She also liked my ass and she admired the fact that my back wasn't covered by hair. Now I want to take the opportunity to tell you about how koala the fat fuck (he's very thin) ignored my suggestions for a new slogan for SUPERBLOG!!
We Will Rock You!
Huh? Not bad I think, but not good enough for Koala and I'm not allowed to change things in the template. Partly because Koala aint a very trusting person and partly (as I believe I have mentioned somewhere in the archives) because I am a big jolly delete this blog button pressing person.
Foreword
Hello. This is a work of fiction, written to celebrate National Novel Writing Month [http://www.nanowrimo.org], which is "a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30." As you may have noticed, it's already evening, November 16. That's not a huge problem, though - what takes lesser people a full month usually takes me two weeks, tops.
One of my goals with this project is to write a novel in less time than it takes to read it. Will I succeed? Probably. Everything I do turns to gold. I am a very successful and handsome person. The only setback I ever suffered in life was the other day, when I bought a bag full of Gorby's piroger (my dictionary says they're called "Russian pasty" in English, but I don't trust it) and the bag said there was a "surprise" inside. And naturally, I'm thinking, "Fuckshit! I'll get a golden ticket to the Gorby factory where Willy Wonka will give me a golden shower and make me his heir!" But you know what? The gift was a fucking reflex that said, "Gorby's: We don't give a fuck about you". Those fucking fuckers, someone should fuck them in the ass.
But that's neither here nor there. Now is the time to put up or shut up, and, as loyal SUPERBLOG!! readers know, I'm not one to shut up. I'm the kind of guy who would gladly show his penis to a stranger on the street, if only someone asked.
I am also doing this to better myself. And make a lot of money. So if anyone wants to publish this novel in paper form, let me know via the usual channels. Random House, I am looking at YOU.
I haven't actually written the book yet, but I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that it will, without a doubt, be the single best book you'll ever read in your entire life. (I'm guessing it will be around 8-10 times better than the runner-up, which is probably some piece of trash Booker Prize winner you'll pick up in an airport in Hong Kong in 2016.)
Please note that any and all typos is and are the fault of you, the reader.
Now: enjoy. That's an order.
Chapter 1
It was a dark and stormy night. Bobo was looking out the window, at all the people passing by way down below. It was October, October 31st, and Bobo was sitting at the window, writing a letter to his friend Jambola. Jambola was a guy who lived in Pakistan, in a town called Sukkur. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: I didn't make that up, there really is a Pakistanian town called Sukkur. I looked it up in the CIA World Fact Book [http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/].)
Where was I? Oh yeah, Bobo was sitting at the window. Suddenly, a bird flew by! Bobo was terrified, because he was scared of birds. Plus and also, this specific bird looked to him like... THE RED-THROATED LOON OF DEATH!
Chapter 2
It later turned out the bird Bobo had seen wasn't the red-throated loon of death. In fact, it wasn't even a loon, but a horned grebe. What an amusing mistake! thought Bobo to himself, as he was sitting there in the room, looking stupid.
Suddenly someone walked into the room! The room filled with laugher. The laughter came from the person who entered the room, who was... Jambola, Bobo's friend (from Chapter One)!
"Hello Bobo, my friend", said Jambola, Bobo's friend.
"Hello Jambola, what time is it?" answered Bobo mysteriously.
"Time... TO DIE!" screamed Bobo's former friend Jambola as he screamed and also lunged at Bobo with a very, very sharp steak knife that he had sharpened. That's how it got so sharp. He had sharpened it especially to kill Bobo, his former friend from way back. Anyway, Jambola screamed as he LUNGED!
Chapter 3
As Jambola was licking the blood from his steak knife (he killed Bobo with it, you see), everything got very ominous. The air, the milieu, even the environment all around him.
"Now", said Jambola to himself, "there is but one thing that could make this a better day, and that would be if my good friend Bobo was here to share it with me." He took a few steps into the wall, and then he disappeared like a shadow.
Today's Random Jessica Biel Fact: Jessica Biel is a recovering vegetarian (true).
I'm so fucking weak! I wrote most of this entry over a week ago, and then I forgot all about it. Last Whateverthefuckday was World Usability Day, so I thought I'd check in with Danish pastry chef Jacob Nielsen to see what he has to say about blog usability, and how it relates to SUPERBLOG!!, the blog you're reading just now.
Here, in no particular order, except the exact order he mentions them in, are My Nielsen's top Usability Issues for bloggityblogs (for the sake of convenience, I'll cut and paste relevant bits below, but if you have a blog yourself, I urge you to check out the complete article):
1. No Author Biographies
It's a simple matter of trust. Anonymous writings have less credence than something that's signed. And, unless a person's extraordinarily famous, it's not enough to simply say that Joe Blogger writes the content. Readers want to know more about Joe. Does he have any credentials or experience in the field he's commenting on?
I do have credentials. Trust me.
2. No Author Photo
Even weblogs that provide author bios often omit the author photo. A photo is important for two reasons: It offers a more personable impression of the author. You enhance your credibility by the simple fact that you're not trying to hide.
I'm a Gorg. Just kidding.
3. Nondescript Posting Titles
[...] Users must be able to grasp the gist of an article by reading its headline. Avoid cute or humorous headlines that make no sense out of context.
As the kids say: LOL. (Not really. Tears are streaming down my face. Tears now of hilarity but of saddity.)
4. Links Don't Say Where They Go
Many weblog authors seem to think it's cool to write link anchors like: "some people think" or "there's more here and here." Remember one of the basics of the Web: Life is too short to click on an unknown. Tell people where they're going and what they'll find at the other end of the link.
SUPERBLOG!!'s stated goal: To fill the few remaining days of its reader's lives with unnecessary clickiness into the Unknown.
A related mistake in this category is to use insider shorthand, such as using first names when you reference other writers or weblogs. Unless you're writing only for your friends, don't alienate new visitors by appearing to be part of a closed clique.
You listening, SUPERBLOG!! bitches? We're gonna ignore you from now on.
5. Classic Hits are Buried
Hopefully, you'll write some pieces with lasting value for readers outside your fan base. Don't relegate such classics to the archives,
Yeah, this is something to think about, actually. Maybe you've noticed we've added a "greatest hits" section, but the posts selected are maybe not all that great.
6. The Calendar is the Only Navigation
A timeline is rarely the best information architecture, yet it's the default way to navigate weblogs. Most weblog software provides a way to categorize postings so users can easily get a list of all postings on a certain topic.
But fucking Blogger fucking doesn't.
7. Irregular Publishing Frequency
Establishing and meeting user expectations is one of the fundamental principles of Web usability. For a weblog, users must be able to anticipate when and how often updates will occur. [...] Certainly, you shouldn't post when you have nothing to say. Polluting cyberspace with excess information is a sin. To ensure regular publishing, hold back some ideas and post them when you hit a dry spell.
I've actually done that ever since SUPERBLOG!! started. These last few days, though, I was out of town, and Sammy was busy doing mysterious stuff.
8. Mixing Topics
If you publish on many different topics, you're less likely to attract a loyal audience of high-value users. Busy people might visit a blog to read an entry about a topic that interests them. They're unlikely to return, however, if their target topic appears only sporadically among a massive range of postings on other topics. The only people who read everything are those with too much time on their hands (a low-value demographic).
Ouch.
9. Forgetting That You Write for Your Future Boss
Whenever you post anything to the Internet -- whether on a weblog, in a discussion group, or even in an email -- think about how it will look to a hiring manager in ten years. [...] Years from now, someone might consider hiring you for a plum job and take the precaution of 'nooping you first. [...] What will they find in terms of naïvely puerile "analysis" or offendingly nasty flames published under your name?
Yeah, could this possibly be why we write under aliases?
10. Having a Domain Name Owned by a Weblog Service
Having a weblog address ending in blogspot.com, typepad.com, etc. will soon be the equivalent of having an @aol.com email address or a Geocities website: the mark of a naïve beginner who shouldn't be taken too seriously.
I agree, but a proper address costs money. It's alright for wealthy Danish pastry chefs like Jake Nielsen, but the rest of us barely make ends meet as it is. A domain name costs several thousand bucks a month, for crying out loud!
Yes, it's tempting to start a new weblog on one of the services that offer free accounts. It's easy, it's quick, and it's obviously cheap. But it only costs $8 per year to get your personal domain name and own your own future. As soon as you realize you're serious about blogging, move it away from a domain name that's controlled by somebody else.
Hey Sammy, are we serious about blogging...?
Join us again tomorrow for another exciting Random Jessica Biel Fact.
Sometimes I like to rip off Tom Spurgeon's links and act like I found them myself. This is one of those times. Case in point: Bunny Suicides. That's cartoons of rabbits killing themselves, yes.
Yet another case in point: here's an alternative New Yorker caption contest I found a little bit amusing. Some of the real winners are pretty funny, too. (But most of them suck something fierce.)
I felt like living on the edge so I did a search at Google for "fuck google" and that's how I found this. Very inspirational and also very educational! Inspirational, because it really inspired me to go out and fuck around with people and educational because I learned that when it comes to being fucked up, nothing can beat being Japanese. You don't believe me? Google will prove it for me in three easy steps.
One,(Sorry for editing out the URL in the picture but it was out of respect for our younger viewers. I wont blog about weird japanese sex until I'm drunk or psychotic whichever comes first.)
I had an extremely interesting blog post prepared, but my dog ate it. Or maybe I decided it was too good for the likes of you, who can tell? So instead I'll just reproduce Jessica Simpson's latest blog entry (with her permission, of course):
1.9.04
hello you guys:
my life is soooo crazy. I am sorry that it has been so long since i have had a chance to touch base with you guys. these camera guys just won't leave me alone!! how are you guys doing? i can not thank you enough for all your support and belief. it looked like we were in trouble for a second. your prayers worked.... i have been so blessed. i thank god everyday that i have you guys on my team. looks like the single will go top ten next week. our record sales were higher last week by 20% than in august when we released the record. i'm recording the next single "take my breath away" . that was the theme song from "top gun". it was also the song that was playing the first time nick kissed me..... nick and i are going to make the world premeire on oprah winfrey february 13th. make sure and watch.....
our next season of newlyweds starts january 21st. it is going to be as funny as last season. you know me, i am always saying something crazy. the show is going to start with our first wedding aniversary... don't miss it.
oh yeah, saturday the 17th, nick and i are hosting saturday night live. now that is going to be crazy. maybe i'll get even with justin timberlake... oh well, again i want you to know how much i love you all. keep me in your prayers.
love, jess
That could have been the end, but I also want to take this opportunity to publish a masterful haiku, written by my friend and co-blogger Uncle Sammy:
booby boobs penis jessica
hot sexy stuff fisting
fucky dollars
anal fucking donkey horse dog
desperate housewives
atari
I am blinking away tears right now. I promise you I am.
Now it's easier than ever to be a hard-drinking SUPERBLOG!! fan. Instead of having to remember our long and boring Blogger address (what is it, www.superblog2000.bloggy.blog.spotblogger.com or something?), you can just think to yourself, What is my favorite hobby? And the answer will come: To come to SUPERBLOG!! Yes, our new address is http://come.to/superblog, through the miracle of unpaid URL forwarding. (Sadly, http://cum.to/superblog doesn't yet point to SUPERBLOG!!, but we will work on that.) As an added bonus, the come.to address is delivered complete with popups, spyware, and probably viruses! All three basic food groups!
In other words: Stop using www.superblog2000.bloggy.blog.spotblogger.com immediately, and start using http://purl.org/NET/superblog instead. Huh? The fuck?
So... should we invest in a domain name or what?
Hi y'all! I really need to share this with the world. I just had me some supper; Bullen's Beer Sausage and sandwiches. Sometimes bad things happen but tonight everything works to my advantage! I dropped a piece of bread and it fell butter-side up!!! How about it?! I get the feeling everything is gonna change from now!
The angle imparted by the ungainly divestiture of the bread causes the bread to rotate as it falls, fuelled somewhat by the uneven mass distribution of the butter or other viscous substance (ugh! like Marmite) on the bread or toast slice. This rotation has a period and unfortunately the floor intersects this cycle exactly at the half way point, resulting in the deposition of the bread slice with the viscous side down.As previously alluded to on SUPERBLOG!!, there are quite a few blurry photos of me standing in front of a mirror in a restroom, looking drunk. That's because most of those pictures are taken in various pubs. I started doing this as a sort of pathetic hobby around Summer 2004.
This particular picture is #28 (you realize I pulled that number out of my ass, right?) in the series, and it's from... somewhere. I can't remember and I don't recognize the place. It seems to have been taken November 2nd last year, though, so maybe one of SUPERBLOG!!'s readers remembers drinking with me on that date, and can fill us in? Maybe even Uncle Sammy?
Oh, and happy Usability Day!
Just two short months after Sammy Sneeze, I finally got around to watching my illegal copy of Tim Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, first mentioned on SUPERBLOG!! back when it was five days old and mostly written in Swedish!
I thought it was a pretty cool film, but there's no way I'd have given it five Michael Keatons, (unlike some SUPERBLOG!! contributors I know). Not sober, at least.
One thing I'd like to mention: if you think you recognize the guy who plays the Oompa-Loompas (Mister Deep Roy), it might be because he was the Tin Man in Return to Oz, which you of course immediately ran out to buy after reading about on SUPERBLOG!! this summer.
Since Sammy already laid claim to being Augustus Gloop, I guess I'll pick Veruca Salt as the character I identify most with. Like Veruca, I'm fucking spoiled, I have a band named after me, I was born in Sweden to Swedish parents, and I speak fluent Swedish. Don't believe me? Check this out:
Jag bra prata! Mig bra svenska talare! Mapa skrika malopp!
I wrote that entirely without help.