In the world of idiots, there are those who acknowledge the fact they're idiots and there are those who never will.
I don't like either variety.
If you just happen to be an idiot, do your best to hide the fact, preferably by keeping your fingers off the fucking keyboard. If you can't supress the urge to write, at least have the decency not to tell everyone you're an idiot. If we have to put up with your inane dribble, we sure as hell don't want to have your dirty laundry waved in our faces as well.
Netizens should be harsh with idiots. Stomp them back into the ground wherever you encounter them. They are not worthy of taking up bandwidth. They are the reason supermarkets were invented. They have no idea about what they want so they just grab whatever is available, hence Safeway make a fortune out of them. If these idiots had brains, they'd take a shopping list, spend one third as much as they do and keep the express lanes clear for people who actually do have a brain.
Bastards.
It's these idiots who feel that just because they have a place to splatter their braindead opinions around the place that others actually want to read them. Get a clue, dippies, we don't.
Nobody gives a fuck about your boyfriend/girlfriend troubles - unless you stitched them up in amusing fashion. Nobody cares about the problems your kids are having at school. They're probably fat little pooh bears anyway. Euthanise them now before they make other people suffer later. Fat fuckers are the worst kind of loonies. It's true, just watch an episode of Rikki or Springer and see just how many fat fucks there are on those shows.
Pasty faced morons.
I watch one episode per year of those shows and nothing changes except the level of my incredulity that anyone can be that fucking stupid. It makes it easy to see how Bush got elected.
I'm fed to the back teeth of idiots - especially on the net.
I bailed from almost all of my haunts. Just packed my shit up and left. At least here I can tell you all what a pack of thick mother fuckers you are and nobody is going to assail me with their "Oh yeah, well guess what..." Especially stupid people try that thinking I somehow give a tinker's damn what they think or that they're going to have some sort of influence on my thinking.
Here's a hint: I don't care what you think. If you don't like what I've said, sux to be you. If you do like what I've said, good for you, I still don't want to know about it. Just go about your daily business and don't try to engage me in your tiny little worlds because I'm not interested.
This is my vent space, not yours. And my email is for people I want to email, it's not for you to tell me what I already know - that you're not happy with what I've said, and by default, that you are an out and out moron.
My advice is to go teach a pig to speak. It will doubtless prove more intelligent than you anyway.
Saturday, June 05, 2004
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Writing in short choppy sentences is neither attractive nor artistic. Elongating them is just ugly self indulgence. To put it bluntly, just put it bluntly.
I dislike male authors who write for typically female audience for the same reasons I dislike women authors. There’s just too much damn clutter and a propensity for not telling it like it is, but giving the author’s impression and why. I want to read the story. I want to get from start to finish in as entertained a fashion as I can not spend the entire time trying to sift through the psychological baggage of the author. I have my own baggage; I don’t want theirs as well. I bought the book because I want to read a story, not get an author’s impression of events.
Fortunately, I didn’t buy the book.
Nor will I recommend it and anyone who asks me if I have read it is going to be told I put it back on the shelf after reading the first three pages and skimming through bits and pieces of it. I cut to the chase but even that was painfully beset with literary clutter. I was expecting at any time to see the author address the reader with an example of how an event their life was eerily similar to the story in the book. Instead, I was left thinking the author must have issues with which they can only deal by writing things down in the third person as if these terrible events happened to someone else – only the events weren’t terrible, they were just terribly dull. Anyone who spends two entire pages describing rain hitting a storefront window and being reminded of a family barbecue is not writing a story, they’re wasting time. And for anyone who cares to notice, the beads of condensation running down the sides of a glass filled with champagne look absolutely nothing like raindrops running down a huge storefront window. No they don’t.
This particular book was written by a woman. I’m not going to tell you her name or the name of the book, so don’t waste your time asking. The fact is, I didn’t get the author’s name and I forget the title of the book.
I found myself looking at books because of two I’ve had my nose in recently. The first is the thousand page documentary of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer and I find myself questioning the accuracy of his work which really is off putting. I’ve already spotted one mistake – or out and out lie, I’m not sure which – and a fair amount of other stuff just doesn’t quite gel with other information I have.
The other book is Account Settled by Hjalmar Schact, who was Hitler’s Minister of Economics from 1934 until 1937. Now, Schact is no writer but he has a hell of a story and it’s the story that is interesting. In fact, it’s better than interesting. There just isn’t a whole lot of aesthetic detail.
Shirer’s book is fascinating for its historical value, but he smatters the pages with his personal opinions. The truth is, he wasn’t present when Ribbentrop signed the Non-Aggression Pact with Stalin, so he has no claim to report how the two men behaved that night based on the available information.
Where Shirer was present in Germany and Austria prior to 1939, he gives descriptions of parades, radio broadcasts, the mood of the populace and so on. That’s valid as far as I’m concerned.
The rest isn’t.
Is it just me, or are things changing in the world of authors?
I dislike male authors who write for typically female audience for the same reasons I dislike women authors. There’s just too much damn clutter and a propensity for not telling it like it is, but giving the author’s impression and why. I want to read the story. I want to get from start to finish in as entertained a fashion as I can not spend the entire time trying to sift through the psychological baggage of the author. I have my own baggage; I don’t want theirs as well. I bought the book because I want to read a story, not get an author’s impression of events.
Fortunately, I didn’t buy the book.
Nor will I recommend it and anyone who asks me if I have read it is going to be told I put it back on the shelf after reading the first three pages and skimming through bits and pieces of it. I cut to the chase but even that was painfully beset with literary clutter. I was expecting at any time to see the author address the reader with an example of how an event their life was eerily similar to the story in the book. Instead, I was left thinking the author must have issues with which they can only deal by writing things down in the third person as if these terrible events happened to someone else – only the events weren’t terrible, they were just terribly dull. Anyone who spends two entire pages describing rain hitting a storefront window and being reminded of a family barbecue is not writing a story, they’re wasting time. And for anyone who cares to notice, the beads of condensation running down the sides of a glass filled with champagne look absolutely nothing like raindrops running down a huge storefront window. No they don’t.
This particular book was written by a woman. I’m not going to tell you her name or the name of the book, so don’t waste your time asking. The fact is, I didn’t get the author’s name and I forget the title of the book.
I found myself looking at books because of two I’ve had my nose in recently. The first is the thousand page documentary of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer and I find myself questioning the accuracy of his work which really is off putting. I’ve already spotted one mistake – or out and out lie, I’m not sure which – and a fair amount of other stuff just doesn’t quite gel with other information I have.
The other book is Account Settled by Hjalmar Schact, who was Hitler’s Minister of Economics from 1934 until 1937. Now, Schact is no writer but he has a hell of a story and it’s the story that is interesting. In fact, it’s better than interesting. There just isn’t a whole lot of aesthetic detail.
Shirer’s book is fascinating for its historical value, but he smatters the pages with his personal opinions. The truth is, he wasn’t present when Ribbentrop signed the Non-Aggression Pact with Stalin, so he has no claim to report how the two men behaved that night based on the available information.
Where Shirer was present in Germany and Austria prior to 1939, he gives descriptions of parades, radio broadcasts, the mood of the populace and so on. That’s valid as far as I’m concerned.
The rest isn’t.
Is it just me, or are things changing in the world of authors?
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