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IN my humble opinion, search engines these days are pond
scum. Okay, WORSE than pond scum, actually. I’m talking about that
disgustingly slimy, stench-ridden muck that floats on the surface
of the murkiest waters—but truly deserves to sink into oblivion.
Know why? Because they’re driving some of the skankiest, low-life
creatures on earth who own computers to MY blog in hopes that they
might actually find the perverted and pathetically vile prose that
they seek. Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Not you, my dear friends. No no. It’s that sordid crowd of
worthless vermin who have nothing better to do with their time at 3
a.m. than to fervently punch in words and phrases like “girls
remove panties,” “bare naked,” “big boobs,” “hot mom,” “blow,”
“suck” ad infin-belchum. It’s sickening. Revolting, actually. Not
only because it makes me ill to wrap my mind around the shameful
depth and degree of rankness that exists in this world, but also
because some days, those rank individuals are the only ones who
happen to be viewing my grand and glorious words. Sad but true, I
know—especially since the fools stumbled there purely by
accident.
Well, maybe the words I choose aren’t all that grand or even
glorious when I think about it. And maybe they’re not altogether
mine either. You can’t really own a word now, can you? But bunches
of words, purposefully thrown together in a specific order—now
that’s different. I own those. And I ought to—considering the fact
that it takes me an eternity to string a coherent handful together.
Even good bullshit takes time. And that’s precisely what the folks
at Google and MSN and Yahoo, etc., etc. don’t get. It’s about the
words. The blasted words, people! And about how the process of
searching has little or nothing to do with the words—unless, of
course, the idiots doing the searches knew enough to put those
nasty little snippets of speech inside quotes—then maybe they’d be
getting somewhere—besides my blog.
It absolutely cracks me up to think of how completely stunned they
must be when they happen upon my discussions of dog poop,
lunchboxes and fishbowl disasters involving eight-year-olds—instead
of the lewdness they surely expect. Just for fun, I try to envision
their sad, little faces with a look of “Damn, didn’t I spell
p-a-n-t-i-e-s right?” or “What’s with the naked Barbie dolls? I
don’t wanna see stinking Barbie dolls! What an e-ffing waste of
time!”
Good. I hope I continue to waste your time, you demented little
squirrels. And I hope I continue to piss you off when you don’t
find what you’re looking for. If, by chance, you end up being
mildly amused, however—that’s good, too.
Maybe there’s hope for you yet.
Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.blogspot.com
and at www.planetmom.typepad.com,
too.
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