skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Monday, 16 March
You know what? I'm done apologizing to you assholes. Yes, you: my readers. Assholes. Every one of you. I won't give you the satisfaction of saying "I'm sorry."
I started this thing back in 2002, and I posted my balls off. Seriously, this blog was my orchiectomy. FIVE DAYS A WEEK I POSTED. Man, I posted poetry satires that were thuddingly inexpert; I posted fantasias about what it would be like if elements were high school students; I posted ranting nonsense about computer crashes that I understood nothing about. I had so much energy, so much to share! Then I stopped posting every damn day. Probably because I didn't have balls any more. I gave you my balls.
So I stopped posting every day. I cut back to three days a week, mostly writing cheap shots at movies I hadn't seen and probably will never see, God willing. Still I remained ball-less. They weren't growing back. You didn't care.
Eventually, I got down to posting once a week. That's enough for those unslavering creeps, I thought. Now my balls will gloriously return. You remained silent. Oh, sure, every now and then you'd leave a comment. "LOL" you would listlessly type into my famously obstinant comment box. "I liek it!"
Then--then!--I got sick for a while and my posts dropped to nothing. And so what happens? You bitch me out. "Hey, fucko, what's with the nothing? Give us our something! GARRRRR, OUTRAGE!"
Yeah, well, fuck all y'all. Here, let me check on something. Oh, yeah! Still no balls! You fucking sack-thieves.
What do you want from me? You want more takedowns of horrible movies that I can't be bothered to actually watch? (Exception: any Nic Cage movie.) Another greasy rip on CSI: Miami? (Okay, tonight's episode was even more deliriously insane than usual. An air marshal colludes with a stewardess to smuggle French sleeping aids into the country resulting in the death of another stewardess who winds up in a baggage carousel! MWAH!) You want more tortured fake poetry? Fine! Try this on!
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
Okay, so that's actually Philip Larkin, but you see my (and, to a lesser extent, Larkin's) point. That point being, I'm still smooth like a Ken doll down there. I mean, I've still got wang, and plenty of it, but what good is wang without the wheels? It's like having a car jack without a tire iron, or a different, much better analogy; perhaps involving my parents.
You see? I'm spinning my wheels here, and all you want is blood and profane critiques of Axe body spray ads. Or tirades against rotoscoping, or just me mashing my keyboard with my choad. I give and very occasionally give, and two or three of you just demand more! It's unbearable.
I've just about mined every tedious childhood memory I can stand to recall. Oh, sure, there was that one time my mom made tuna casserole and forgot to put in the tuna. Jesus fucking Christ, that was awesome. (Full story: one time, my mom forgot to put the tuna into a tuna casserole. It was hilarious because without tuna, it's not really a tuna casserole, and also because I fucking hate tuna. Oh, and also, my mother had early-onset Alzheimer's, and I stole all her pills and sold them to the guys who smoked in the parking lot. They beat me savagely anyway. Don't worry; I killed them all long ago, and as far as I know, my mother is drooling comfortably into a government-bought pillow, so that's all good.)
I don't mean to sound bitter. I just want to make you happy; but more importantly, I want to make me happy, and that means making you cretinous bastards . . . happy. It's confusing to me. I can barely get out of bed in the afternoon, or sometimes late evening. Sometimes I use a cane.
This is all coming out wrong. A little bit of writer's block is to be expected every now and then. I guess I just really miss my--if I may say--pretty awesome balls. It's not your fault to want things. I want things. I'd actually say that I want all things. But mostly my balls.
This isn't your fault. It's my fault. It's nobody's fault. It's Nic Cage's fault.
I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm sorry.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
testing comment fix
That's okay, Skot. Really. It happens to the best of us. Sorry, I got nothing clever-er.
Who the f--- dared to complain? I get your posts via RSS feed, so post as infrequently as you wish, and I'll read it when I get around to it.
I just wish you traveled more, because your stories about France kicked ass. (hmmm...that is sounding like a complaint, isn't it. But it was intended as a compliment.)
stop crying. your ball-less, meaningless man-tears are spilling into my beer and watering it down. and fuck you for watering down my beer and ruining my buzz you ball-less bastard. if you'd done things right, your wife would have your balls, and you could occasionally take them off the shelf and, while not use them, longingly stare at them in honorable remembrance of the times they were attached and spewing forth fertile seed of which you populated this red-headed step-child of a blog.
even if you have no balls.
There, there, Skot. It'll be okay.
If this is a roundabout way of asking for your balls back, the answer is still no.
I love you more than ever.
Listen, if you want to borrow my balls to help you through this crisis, that's fine. Just let me show you how to lovingly cup them . . .
Sorry...I couldn't resist. But really, we do love you. And we're keeping your balls.
You could always start a PayPal donation drive for us to buy you some Neuticles...
Or just post whenever you want to, not because you feel you have to. I don't intend to stop reading your page, no matter how infrequently you post. Quality will win over quantity every time.
Jeez, you guys are nice. This is still the internet, right?
No preocupes usted. Todos es bien. Te quiero. Escibiste mas. El fin.
No preocupes usted. Todos es bien. Te quiero. Escibiste mas. El fin.
I don't think "me"--which I assume is his real name--is very nice. My firm command of the French language tells me he said...Something about having no porcupines in his uretha, but his queer toads will eviscerate you with a fin. And then he said it again! Not nice at all!
Yes, it is me. I'm sorry sir, for the pain and upsettedness (no, not a word) caused, if I am in fact one of those you are referencing.
The point was not to ridicule but to remind you that you have readers that love your stuff, myself included, hanging on your every word. That's all it was meant for.
So I am sorry as well.
PS- The first time I read Tearful Apes I was almost on the floor lol
Fuck 'em. Post when you wanna post. Hell, I only hit your site about once a week anyway. Beats raking the yard.
Balls or no balls, your blog is some seriously funny shit. Just keep filtering your reality into this blog and give your tens of readers more to love.
I've just been reading your archives. In fact, I told someone about your blog the other day, and mentioned the post where you bought all those cans of tuna for your father. I waved my arms emphatically. It was epic.
I have no idea how I found your blog, but I've been reading it for a few years now. That's probably weird, but whatever. I leik it.
Hey, fucko, what's with the something? Give us our nothing! GARRRRR, OUTRAGE!
Like you had any balls *before* you started blogging... sure, blame the internets, Skot.
God, I hate this blog.
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