My Comments Are Trash

Crying Monkey

I started this blog about four years ago. It was at, which is the magazine I write for. Occasionally, the guys at would put me up, and that was nice. But I wanted my own blog. So here we are.

Microsoft stole my name. For about twenty years, I could be just Bing. I was Bing. In fact, I still am. But now I have to be Stanley Bing, because the guys at Microsoft poached my goodwill and here we are. Try Bing! And then decide. Fuck that. You know? I was playing Angry Birds the other day and I FAILED at a critical level and the screen of failure popped up and there was an invitation to go to YouTube via Bing to see what the Angry Bird pros did to beat the level. This really aggravated me. Bing has branded a line extension of my personal space. My personal space includes Angry Birds. Now Bing is in it. But I'm Bing. But now I'm not Bing. I'm Stanley Bing. Me and Bing? We're both Bing.

Be that as it may. I started this blog, and it's going well. I like not being a feature of somebody else's destination. But my comments, which were the pride and joy of my FORTUNE site, are now totally and completely for shit. Well, maybe that's not fair. There are still some guys who are migrating over from the old site, who care to talk about the stuff they read, marginally. Okay, a lot of the time they're just bloviating, but I love these guys. They're the salt of the earth. The other creepazoids and sponges? They can go away.

There are the idiots who write these simpering little missives about how much they love my blog and think it's so very valuable and somewhere inside their turd sandwich there's a link to some crudmarket that sells sunglasses or hormones or lawn furniture. They are trash. They are offal. "This is a very valuable blog you have here. I plan to go here all the time," says the typical digital pellet. What it means is that somebody told somebody in Waziristan that Americans are stupid and easily flattered, so if you want to embed your link over there just plant it in the middle of a digital blow job. Well fuck them.  I will not be blown! At least digitally.

Then there are the others. They have links, too, but are not clever enough to have a guru in Waziristan. These are the ones that truly mystify me. They're not in English. They're not in any language. They're just gibberish. What are they? Why do people send them?

"nof rod stupq iz qoiqn/  oriwjiw ah   akrnglait," says a portion of one of these.

What could it mean? Is it possible that there is an alternative universe within our midst that is speaking to itself in these missives hidden within my obscure and lonely blog? "!#$ anownqory aknnxiz xxx 8uqyr1342," says another, although I may be paraphrasing. Do electric sheep dream of mint jelly?

I want good comments. I've been trying to reach across to the loads of nutbags that have been talking to me for years at, but the Time Inc. guys are either playing the most wicked game of hardball I've ever seen, and that's saying a lot, or they've got other things on their minds. That's possible, I admit it.

Add Comment