It escaped through a broken link. Is there something odd about the fellow on the bar stool next to you? Could be my blog. Do yourself a favor. Get up, nonchalantly, mind you, don't make a show of it, and stroll away, quick-like. Whatever you do, don't look it in the eye. If it tries to bum a cigarette, you don't smoke. If it wants a ride home, you're going the opposite way. If it wants to buy you a drink, you ain't thirsty. Got it?
Because my blog is just waiting on a reason to kick your blog's ass.
I don't know what I did, who knows....maybe I didn't feed it enough in its formative years. It's true-there were times when I'd go months between postings. I didn't know, for Pete's sake. I didn't know blogs could be such pricks.
Now I'm hearing the stories: Readers turned away at the gate, false membership mandates, domain names denied, unresponsive blog rolls, and thousands of followers lost. Okay hundreds. Hundreds of followers gone. Fine, like a hundred, okay? A hundred followers vanished without a trace. And not only that, but we have a severe case of failure to update.
I think my blog may have skipped the country. Yesterday I received a message comprised of magazine cut-outs that read
"You're a mean old wanker, and I ain't comin' back ever".
And it's spell checking in the King's English. Right now, It's probably sitting in some seedy London pub eating fish and chips, drinking warm beer, and bragging to Keith Richards about all the chat rooms it trashed back in the states.
Any minute now I expect I'll start seeing random Instagram postings of my blog behaving badly all across the UK. Maybe it's sporting a beard, several new tattoos, and is thinking of joining the IRA. It's probably developed a fake accent.
You know, I'm sure there's no cause for alarm but just to be on the safe side, if you see my blog, text blog control and seek shelter. It might be rabid. Seriously.
Have you seen this blog? Oh, wait, that's just George Michael. Nice eyebrows, George Michael.