"How [Not] to Write Like a Blogger"

Ladies and gentleman, guess who stopped by for a visit to the Insane Asylum...the mutha fracking rockstar badass herself Terrye Toombs!

When Terrye isn't annoying fellow bloggers or practicing her pole dancing routine, she can be found ranting her behind off at asshatrants.blogspot.com. She also has serious delusions of becoming a published science fiction author and is documenting that little misadventure at ttoombs08.wordpress.com. And if you really want to impress her, try following her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/TToombs08

"How [Not] to Write Like a Blogger"

Blogging is the redheaded stepchild to real writing. Or so a lot of people think.  And that begs the question, “Why do so many people consider bloggers to be less than real writers?” Could it be the endless supply of blogs featuring crappy writing that ignores the basic rules like spelling, grammar and punctuation? Or the overabundance of ‘mommy’ bloggers flooding the market with their constant talk of poopy mishaps and boring suburbia? What about just plain old greed – people thinking that throwing any old crap up on a blog to sell something is going to make them over night millionaires?

I’ve met a lot (ok, a lot might be a slight exaggeration) of talented bloggers that, if they weren’t blogging, could be confused for ‘real’ writers. Unfortunately, they get lost in the tidal wave of substandard and downright yucky blogs. But, what if you want to be a blogger and not fall into the category of ‘just another blogger?’ How can you stand out from the crowd and garner the attention you so well crave and deserve?

1. Write in your own voice. None of this mealy mouthed, pansy cow manure stuff where you mimic another blogger’s voice! Readers will see through that like a nightie on a porn star. What? You don’t have a unique voice? I bet your momma could pick you out in a crowd of screaming toddlers in the wave pool when you were a kid. Everyone has their own voice, you just need to rediscover it and hone that bad boy, yo!

Question for the Hostest with the Mostest: MJM, how did you finally realize you found your own voice in your writing? Was it when they started threatening to burn you at the stake or when beautiful women started tossing their undergarments at you while you walked down the street?

MJM: Actually I found many voices in my writing, of course they were all in my head, and constantly bickering with each other over what to say or not say, but for the most part they all get along pretty well.

Really though, I never had to find my voice; I just stayed true to who I was and didn’t worry about what the haters and/or lollipops (people with sticks up their ass) thought about my work.

I just wrote what was on my mind, with no regard for good taste or concern for being politically correct, which I’m sure you can plainly see from the inane ramblings you will find plastered all over my blogs.

2. Use all that crap you hated in English 101. I guess you shouldn’t have skipped class to go hide out in the arcade and smoke those stolen cigarettes, huh? Your parents told you that was going to bite you in the ass, and here we are. Consider your ass bitten. But what can you do about it? Short of going back and begging Mrs. Correct English to instruct you all over again, check out some easy to follow online English sites. A short little google search and you’ll have all the answers you’ll ever need.

Question for Big Daddy B(logger): What has been the hardest thing you had to learn as a blogger?

MJM: The hardest thing I had to learn as a blogger was that we, much like Rodney Dangerfield, got absolutely no respect.

No matter how well our grammar is, or how well the piece was written, it would most likely be overlooked and not giving the credit it deserves because we are nothing more than the crappy bottom feeders of the writing world (aka bloggers).

3. Be real. Seriously. If you try to copy someone else’s style, not only will the originator hate you for life, but nothing you ever post will be taken seriously by your readers. They’ll always wonder who you ripped it off from. Don’t be that blogger. There are too many of them already. And if your face is turning red right about now, you’re probably one of them. Cut it out. Give us an original reason to like or dislike you. As for telling tall tales, everyone has done it a time or two, but don’t try to sell it as gospel. You don’t need to lie to your readers to get them to like you.

Question for The Power Strokin’ Sex Machine: What is your biggest pet peeve about fake bloggers?

MJM: My biggest pet peeve about fake bloggers is that these bitches and bastards actually think their shit doesn’t stink, that they are something special and God’s gift to the world of writing.

This blows my mind considering that they don’t have an original bone in their body or an interesting thing to share, but I guess what they lack in skill they make for in attitude.

4. Ego. Some bloggers are so in your face that you just want to email yourself to their home of residency and have a few offline words with them. And then there are the ones that just don’t realize how incredibly great they are, no matter how much their fans sing their praises.

Question for the Warden of the Asylum: If you had one tiny bit of advice to give a blogger that was suffering from low blogger ego, what would it be?

MJM: My one tiny bit of advice to a blogger that was suffering from low blogger ego would be that if you’re staying true to yourself, and putting everything you got into your work, then you should be proud of the outcome and embrace your work with a smile and the satisfaction of knowing you did your best (it may sound cliché, but it’s true).

I would also caution them to not take themselves too seriously, and to always be open to listen to constructive criticism, because if your head gets too big you may find yourself toppling of that pedestal you so undeservingly put yourself on, and trust me the fall is going to hurt.

5. Why Do You Have To Be So Mean? Some bloggers resort to insulting other bloggers. I don’t know whether it’s because they are insecure in their own blogging abilities, or they just weren’t liked as a kid. Regardless of the reason, it’s not an excuse to insult other bloggers. It’s plain and simple bullying. And we know how most of the world feels about bullies.

Question for our Main Man Michael: If you could tell all the blogger bullies a little sumthin’ sumthin’, let ‘er rip!

MJM: The one thing I would tell those bitch ass blogger bullies would be to step off before you get punched in the throat.

Just because you parents didn’t hug you enough when you were a kid, and you’re writing sucks ass, doesn’t give you the right to trash talk someone else and belittle their work.

Regardless of why you’re doing it, it’s not cool and completely uncalled for…so stop taking out all your insecurities on us you big meanies.

I may not have all the answers, but I know from multiple failures, what doesn’t work. Being original and unique, no matter how vanilla or white bread you are, can really help you to stand out in a crowd. Even without dying your hair purple. So, embrace your voice, find that distinctive personality buried within you, and use your words. But above all else, don’t be afraid. No one has ever died in a horrible blogging accident.

“Dafuq”

I knew I loved you before I met you…

I received an email from a person I never met before, who just happened to be a hot chick that seemed to only get her photos taken at Glamour Shots.

S/he first posted a very flattering compliment on my profile pic, I believe it was the word “NICE” followed by two (count them 1-2) exclamation points…what a smooth operator.

Then s/he requested we get to know each other better, so email addresses we exchanged and things quickly got hot and heavy, like a baby’s diaper after eating a nice big meal.

S/he told me she lived overseas, just broke up with her boyfriend and was ready to find a new man, totally sounded legit to me.

S/he was asking for more pictures of me, wanted to know where I lived and of course wanted to know what I did for a living, we were moving along faster than a speeding bullet…and there was no doubt in my mind that I was about to get me some cybersex baby.

I asked her if she wanted pictures of me, or my extra big bank account (oh behave)…I knew s/he wanted my digits, but when I say digits I don’t mean my telephone number, s/he wanted my bank account numbers.

We were wasting time with these pleasantries, and I also knew she was just waiting for me “da man” to make the first move, so that is exactly what I did.

I straight up asked her how she felt about sex, and if she had any nekkid photos of herself (boi oi oing) she could share, just like any good studly dude would do with a hot profile pic.

S/he acted all offended and said, “Now’s not the time to talk about sex”…well I called shenanigans and reminded her what those great poets Salt 'N' Pepa said, “Let's talk about sex, baby…Let's talk about you and me…Let's talk about all the good things…And the bad things that may be”.

Her response back to me was that I wasn’t serious, and that she couldn’t waste time with someone like me, the next thing I knew she was gone, offline like a drunk driver taking a sobriety test on the side of the road.

Now I know we only knew each other for a few hours or so, but I really felt like we connected, as if she was my cyber soul mate.

I now sadly sit at my computer eagerly awaiting the notification ding of a new email, all with the hopes that it is from her, and not some more stupid spam crap trying to sell me on penis enlargement pills.

It’s the end of the world as I know it...

In all seriousness, if any of you men are planning on entertaining this person (or the many others like h(im)er, my advice to you would be "to get a room"...and not one at a motel, but rather one with padded walls.

Come on men; think with the right head for a change and stop doing such stupid things like falling for this kind of crap, you’re making all us intelligent men (yes ladies we do exist, believe it or not) look bad.

MJM

“The Plus Side to Subtracting One”

Breakups suck, there’s always one person left hurting and wondering why, while the other, is jumping for joy like a person in one of those old Toyota commercials from the 80s.

Sure you lose that certain someone, which may be good or bad depending on what side of the emotional gut punch you were on, but all in all it’s not entirely that bad, especially from a man’s perspective.

There are things that you get back, things that were once labeled as immature and gross, things that were frowned upon and not appreciated in the company of a woman, things that only other dudes would understand and respect.

Here, for your reading pleasure, are some of those things I’m talking about.

We can now pick any hole in your body, including our anus, without receiving condemning stares and/or having to endure a barrage of insults.

We can now play our video games, and with ourselves if we so felt the need, without any interference or someone wanting to talk about feelings and emotions.

We can now adjust our junk freely, no matter where in the house we are, and if we’re having one of those bad junk days, we can walk around in our birthday suit letting it all hang out.

We can now leave skid marks in our undies without worrying about the repercussions, with no more disgusted looks and/or females dry heaving while doing the laundry.

We can now dispel gas from any orifice we like, and as loud as we want, without anyone giving us a hard time or looking at us as if we were an orangutan at the zoo.

We can now eat all foods we couldn’t before, and watch all the movies/televisions shows that were once off limits, for example we could now eat a big bucket of fried chicken while watching wrestling if we so choose to, all without any female interruption.

We can now check out at all the females we want, no more pretending that we were looking at the squirrel in the distance behind the hot blonde in the tight dress with the ass like pow, and the boobs like plow.

We can now freely watch cartoons anytime we want, while not having to pretend we were doing so to spend “quality time” with the children.

We can now take a dump in peace, no more worries about leaving debris in the bowl and/or courtesy flushing mid- movement because people are complaining about our aroma, and we can spend as much time as we want on the throne without someone banging on the door telling us to hurry up.

We can now laugh at all the nasty things we hear, and all the things that aren’t dirty but sound dirty, like when announcer for the football game talks about a player’s ball handling skills. Huh huh

We can now listen to whatever music we want to in the car, no more fighting over the radio station or listening to a chick sing a Michael Bolton song off-key and butcher it (if that’s even possible), all the while telling her she sounds good because we looooooove her.  

Well there you have it fellas, the plus side to subtracting one from your relationship.

I know it’s hard, but take it in stride and get back to being a real man (insert manly grunt here).

MJM

“The Freaks Come Out to Play”

Psalms (according to MJM) 23:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of mommy bloggers, I will fear no tight asses, for craziness is with me; my rod and your vajayjay, they comfort me.”

There was a time when I really believed that the blogosphere was made up of only mommy bloggers, tight ass prudes with absolutely no sense of humor and people who believed they were God’s gift to the world of blogging.

These people scared me, they had me questioning exactly why it was that I was willingly joining this “opsphere” (if you will), at least not while being intoxicated and/or with child.

It wasn’t until about a year or so in, and digging through lots of crap, that I found out that there were in fact bloggers who thought like I did, and found the same immature nonsense funny…I was in heaven.

They weren’t afraid to be funny, they weren’t afraid to go against the grain and they weren’t afraid to talk about things other than their children, their personal feelings towards politics/religion/entertainment and/or a so-called “interesting” event that happened during the course of their otherwise boring day.

Don’t get me wrong, I myself have dabbled in these areas occasionally, and personally don’t really have a problem with them, I just can’t believe how over saturated the web is with writers (and I use the term loosely) who live and die by these methods.

Now these writers I’m about to share with you are freaking awesome, they are the best thing since sliced cake and glow in the dark condoms, and totally deserve your love and undying devotion.

Here are samples of how their minds work, so sit back and enjoy the madness, and don’t be afraid to dig deeper into their world and show them the love and respect they deserve.

Joy Christi from Comfy Town Chronicles

“I spent half a morning playing the hashtag game #AddSausageToAMovieTitle and wasn’t content to just ADD the sausage to the title, I felt the need to add it (badly) to pictures.”

(No pictures. I'm in the Witness Protection Protection.)

Terrye Toombs from Asshat Rants

“Tweeting birds annoy me. They sit in their happy little tree, tweeting their happy little songs. If I could reach you, I'd turn you into a happy little sandwich.”

John Bryson from Smack Of Ham

“It's sad that my friend lost his arm in the car accident. On the bright side, he hasn't made a left-handed compliment since."

Starr Bryson from The Insomniac's Dream

"I don't care if people want to bring their babies to the movies. We can't all get a babysitter. I get that. Life doesn't have to end with children. That's not the point. Bring your babies to the movies, fucking breastfeed with your tits out, I don't care. But if it cries, and you don't take it outside, you're a selfish twat.”

Kim Ulmanis from Kim Ulmanis

"The hamster in my brain? He's an asshole. Seriously. He makes my inner editor look all sweet and nice. At least he gives me somewhat constructive advice at times on what to do when my writing sucks. The hamster? He's just a lazy fucking bum that doesn't let me do a damn thing no matter how much coffee I drink. Fucker. I may have to fire his ass and get a new hamster."

Melissa Senecal from The Preoccupied Pirate

“I am NOT a drama queen, I am NOT a drama mama!! When they say "save the drama for ya mama", I call BULLSHIT! This mama don't play that!

Now that that's off my chest, I feel much better! It's nice to be able to blow off steam, even if no one can hear me! Our warden here was kind enough to let us inmates express ourselves!

June is a pain-in-the-ass, hot-as-hell, suck-the-life-out-of-you month anyway and this one has proved even crazier than normal!! Let's hope I don't run out of rum!!

But now I can enjoy my padded cell here in the asylum and not be in any hurry to leave!”

Sarah Almond from The Sadder But Wiser Girl

“As I made yet another meal for my children centered around store brand boxed pasta, I started thinking.  What did people do before there was kraft macaroni and cheese?  How did they survive?  And microwave mac and cheese...  That's definitely a dietary staple.

That thought led me to this thought:  What kind of wine best pairs with microwaveable mac and cheese?  This is important information that one really should know.

If there was a world wide boxed macaroni and cheese shortage, it would be a sad place indeed.  I don't think I would want to live there.”

Cheryl Nicholl from A Pleasant House

“10 Things I Thought Were TRUE When I Was A Kid

Every child is a work in progress- right?

They are influenced not just by Nature, but also by Nurture, and sometimes their own little mushy brains trying to make sense of the world.

When I was a child, I had much brain mush.

It often times leaked out of my mouth, or zapped like bolts of lightening from my fingertips.

Sometimes it had to be spanked.

Let me give you a few examples:

I thought only white people could swim. Why? I don’t have a God damn clue. 

It might have been that I grew-up in a Millbrook Bread kind of place. No one of color- not even those of us that lived there. We were sorta transparent we were sooooo white. The first time I saw an African American in a pool, I jumped in to save her, and I was 7. Convinced she’d drown. But- I was very impressed with the way water droplets shone on her skin. Sparkly. I always loved a shimmer.

The first time a really saw (looked/observed) a black person, it was a kid the same age (about 5), holding his momma’s hand (as was I) and we were walking in the opposite direction and passed each other. We BOTH broke away from our parents and touched each other’s faces. I said ‘hot’. He said ‘smooth’. We both got clobbered, but I think there was something ‘special’ that passed between us.

I thought that all the things that were happening in a television set were fake because they weren’t in color. I wondered why when someone took a photo of me it was also in black/white when I had painstakingly parsed a mutli-colored outfit together, complete with hair bow and snake in my pocket.

I thought my mother had brought home my baby sister from a Baby Sister store just for me. This confirmed my adoration of the woman who would do anything for me- my own living baby doll, was a good start. However, my mother who had sort of ‘bought’ into my enthusiasm, probably had not counted on me cramming open-faced grilled cheese sandwiches, lovingly prepared in my Suzy Bake Oven, down the throat of a two year old with brown sugar sno-ball chasers.  Isn’t that Mommy food? I think so.

I thought every little kid got to sit on a city street corner panhandling for change while their father was inside coping black market hooch. It was a great game. My sister and I would take off our jackets, put away our shoes, rub dirt on our faces, look very homeless and hungry, and people would just throw money at us. They never stopped to ASK if they could help, just said, ‘Poor little things. Here’s a quarter for a hot coco’. Hot coco my ass. I saved up enough money one summer to buy my own Pebbles doll. Our father thought it was genius. Of course, he did.

My sister and I played Hide-n-Seek. I once hid in my parents dirty clothes hamper. I found a bloody pair of my mother’s underpants. I thought she was dying. My first lesson in the R-E-A-L-I-T-E-S of women’s health was immediately explained. I insisted they would not be my problems. I still do.

I knew guns scared people. I knew where my father kept his. I knew the snotty little boy next door needed the shit scared out of him. So- up I went, into the high shelves in the laundry room and un-holstered my father’s revolver and telephoned Tommy to come over, and when he knocked, I opened the door with the gun in his face, just as my mother came around the corner, and, well, two things happened; the gun was removed from the house, and I didn’t sit down for days. Appropriate all around I think. Except, he never got his ass kicking- that day. Which he deserved. But I won’t think about that now because tomorrow is another day, and he’s in a prison in Michigan for assault and battery. WIN.

It never occurred to me that any money making enterprise I could dream up might be unethical.  Jeez. Who was going to arrest a cute little girl that had covered a series of ½ pint milk containers to look like UNICEF collection cups, enlisted a small group of kids in a faraway neighborhood to go door-to-door, and then give them 20% of the take? It worked-btw.

Or that my song-and-dance routine wasn’t going to garner me fame and fortune. After all, my parents dragged me out of bed to perform it often enough.  Of course, I was sorta ready… I always am.”

Gary Sidley from Bryan Jones' Diary - the ramblings of a menopausal man

Maybe there was a time when I had more ambitious aims in the bedroom.

Nowadays, I try to impress my lover in a different way.

My good lady wife, my partner of 31 years, typically retires to bed earlier than I do so by the time I enter the bedroom she is sitting up in bed reading her Hello magazine.

I stand facing her at the foot of the bed.

Slowly, nay tantalizingly, I begin to undress, removing one item of clothing at a time and letting each drop to the floor.

My good lady doesn’t look up, pretending to absorb the glossy-page splendor of Kate Middleton and Prince William.

When clad only in my grey, partially perished, George underpants, I pause (a deliberate ploy to ratchet up the tension).

Teasingly, I slide my briefs down to my knees and let them drop, but before they hit the floor I stick out my cultured left foot and lampoon them under the elastic waistband.

Standing on one leg, with my boxers swinging from my outstretched foot, I bend forwards with my eyes closed and hands behind my back (have you got the picture?) and proceed to flip the undies high into the air.

Rotating like a boomerang over my bowed head, without moving my hands from the base of my spine, I catch them just above the nick of my clenched arse.

What a lucky, lucky lady my wife is!!

So there you have it, when the warden is away, the inmates will play.

MJM

“Florida”

Florida, the state of false advertising and low IQs, if it was a celebrity it would be Anna Nicole Smith…the alive version of course.

Palm trees, beautiful beaches and gorgeous women in bikinis, only in postcards, because it’s more like horrible drivers, die-hard Republican rednecks and fat people fighting over the last piece of chicken fried steak on the buffet.

Florida is so bad that the South won’t even claim it, they were for slavery back in the day, even willing to go to war over it, but when it comes to laying claim to the state they want no part of it.

I could totally see the rest of the country wearing a T-shirt which reads, “We’re with Stupid” with an arrow pointing down to Florida.

The only thing smaller than IQs down here is the amount of teeth these hillbilly bitches have in their mouth, thinking about it, too bad their IQs don’t match their waist size, because if it did this would be a state full of geniuses.

Most people don’t know this, but Florida is actually an acronym, it stands for “Fat Lazy Opinionated Redneck Ignorant Dumb Asses”, and trust me if you’ve ever lived here you would know this to be the truth.

The people are all dicks down here, which I guess is fitting, considering that the state itself looks like a giant dick.

The weather is so freaking hot down here, on most days it feels as if you’re nestled nicely in Satan’s ass crack, and on other days, it’s so hot it feels as if your skin is melting right off the bone, you’re walking around looking like the Toxic Avenger.

There are also more frivolous lawsuits down here than any other place I’ve ever been to; it’s almost as if it’s a sport, a crazy competition to rack up the most dough by suing the as many people as possible…let’s make a deal scammers edition.

The people, the laws and the politics all run backwards down here, it is as if someone is constantly pressing the rewind button on the remote, making it feel as if we’re stuck in some insane time warp that won’t let us move past the prehistoric times.

The people down here also have their own language, it is like nothing I have ever heard before, and honestly hurts my ears (and head) just listening to it, kind of sounds like a cross between Corky (Life Goes On) and Mushmouth (Fat Albert) with a Southern twang.

There’s more crazy old people down here than at Denny’s during the early bird special, all jacked up on caffeine and as senile as ever, and lucky us, they all have a license to drive.

Who knows maybe I’m being too hard on Florida, but being down here makes me feel as if I’m in some sort of commonsense coma with my only life-support system being a mouse on exercise wheel, and the mouse just happens to be Pinky (Pinky and the Brain).

I know what you’re thinking, if it’s really all that bad why don’t I just move, well honestly I’m too lazy and the overall cost of living isn’t really all that bad down here.

So there you have it, why Florida sucks ass and why I’m choosing to stay down here and embrace the misery.

MJM

"Indie Chick’s 2014 Badass Blog Awards Nomination"

Guess who’s nominated in the “Most Likely to Piss People Off Blog” category over at the Indie Chick’s 2014 Badass Blog Awards?

So come on over and show me some love.

Let people know that it’s okay to think outside the box, that it’s okay to go against the grain and that it’s okay to let your freak flag fly high and proud.

There’s no need to be embarrassed and/or lazy, just follow the link below and vote for the Insane Asylum, no one will ever know and I promise you won’t even break a sweat.

The Indie Chick's 2014 Badass Blog Awards

Remember, every time you vote for me an angel get its wings, or a devil its horns if you so prefer.

Voting is only open until May 30th, 8:00 pm EST, so get a move on people, and tell all your friends…and enemies; this is no time to be sensitive.

MJM

“Working the Pole”

I need a way to make some extra money, preferably something legal because I don’t want to end up in jail as someone’s bitch.

I thought about hitting the pole and trying my hand at being a stripper, but then I thought who would want to see a chunky white guy in Daisy Dukes dry humping the air and smacking an imaginary ass in the process.

Not only that but I’m extremely white, and we all know what “they” say about us crackers, and no I’m not talking about the tiny pee pee thing, because that couldn't be any more of a fallacy…am I right white people **nervously looks around**.

I’m referring to the whole no rhythm thing, which in my case is totally true; I can’t even walk down the hallway without bumping into a wall or two along the way.

I would come to the stage to some sleazy tongue-in-cheek rock song, sporting a name like White Chocolate or Third Leg Greg, something to get the chicks (and the genetically enhance straight men aka the gays) all hot and bothered.

Tassels hanging from my nipples as if I was a fancy chandelier, and gyrating my body as if I was in a spin cycle to make them swing like a windmill, and most likely smacking myself in the eye with them due to my awkward demeanor.

This in turn would leave me stumbling to the pole as if I was Helen Keller, the whole time hoping for a miracle worker, but instead ending up with a performance that was best suited for “America’s Funniest Videos” rather than a strip club.

Then that is where the fantasy would end, I would go to jump on the pole, wrapping my legs on top trying to be all sexy, only to slide down it landing flat on my back.

I would have fallen and not been able to get “it” up **huh huh**, actually that’s not funny, because I would have a hurt back and no dollar bills in my G-string to show for it.

Due of my “big bones”, and loads of body glitter, I would end up looking like a disco ball rolling around the stage crying out in pain, and who in their right minds wants that.

I also don’t know if one could collect workers' comp for falling off of a stripper pole, so why risk it.

So obviously stripping is not in my future, not unless people want to see some fat naked white guy sitting on a chair bobbing his head and tapping his foot to the music while slowly shedding his clothing as if he was a snake shedding its skin.

MJM