Matty, Pro Farmer, #1 Dad

Blogs are omnivorous. They feed off of both reader comments and stories about getting dumped on the Internet and the like. Getting comments from your blog readers is like getting a huge steak at a restaurant when you ordered a tiny steak. You just aren't expecting it and when the bill comes you totally don't tell the waiter. In your state of fullness, however, you are more than likely going to tip him an exorbitant amount and then get inspired to go home and write a really good blog post. Writing about emotional iDumping is like going out and shoveling a tough, fibrous diet of e-woe and heart@breaking into the readers' mouths. See, all blog readers are fat cows. Yes, you, the person sitting in the chair in front of the screen, are nothing but a cow to be slaughtered for my nourishment. Sure if I feed you a mass of grain you'll respond with constant, yet lackluster replies. All that personal drama sits in the readers stomach and over time get turned into cud. Then they'll hoark it back up into their mouths and chew on it for a time before deciding to produce milky responses. If I want the juiciest comments I can't keep feeding you the same boring stuff. No! I have to fatten you up even more with tales of the most horrible bloody lows I can think up, because a man can't live on tiny steak alone.

A reader needs variety in his or her diet. It's the only way. When my blog first started the comments posted by some users were so dramalicious that I didn't even need to think up any new material at all. I just fed those readers' comments into the bovine mouths of all my other readers. For awhile this was the perfect "all meat" diet and my blog was awesome. But this kind of cannibalism can only create disaster. Even my most faithful readers ended up contracting a strain of Mad Blog Disease of the Brain that ate them away faster than that Micro Machines Motor Mouth guy at a pussy eating contest. I felt like I couldn't compete with the insane success of my early work so I just gave up on farming for comments all together.

So what do I feed you?

If I talk only about video games or Yu Gi Oh cards then I'm going to alienate a lot of you. If I just talk about how bitchy all my dumb, mean old ex-girlfriends are then they'll stop reading and I'll lose half my audience. I can't just sit around and talk about this bump on my shaft because, although it may be important, it's not going to get much of a response except from the small Doctor community that are required, by the State, to read and analyze my blog. (If only I had a pair of tits my life would be so much easier.) While I may only have modest man-boobs I do have one thing. My ability to create metaphors to link ideas.

Metaphors are tits.

Nothing says, "Good writing." like being able to bring two things together with a complex and incoherent metaphor. Take my whole cow thing I tried to create. You may think it isn't going anywhere. You may think it's nothing but a weak Mootaphor that I used to up my farmer contingent. Well when the cattle get restless you can only do one thing. Give them a firm, swift prod. First with a link to a picture of my "prod" being used as a DS stylus and then with a nice juicy slice of life. People who live amongst the blogotropic planes don't have lives. They suck off the lives of others like how that Motor Mouth guy sucks off a bull's cock at a Bestiality Convention. Filling their small, efficiently pink mouths with a half pint of hot, salty experience, which has a distinct oatty aroma, satisfies them in a way never intended by the Lord our God.

So what rad adventure do I have to tell you about today? Well, I, Matty S., have been digging an 80 foot trench. Hmm. Doesn't seem like much does it? Let me tell you something, Miss Priss; until you work a day in your god damn life and get out there and break some earth instead of breaking hearts then don't ever come up to me online and talk to me about how you are "all that." I have a connection with the Pioneers of our Country's early days, the first Cowboys. I have those same blisters that they had on their palms right at the knuckle. I have those other blisters on my dick that come from jacking off with a fist full of blisters. I've felt the sweet sting as palm blister on dick blister burst forth like the first time Pa took us down to Santa An to see the fireworks show the Traveling Merchant brought all the way from the settled territories. My taint has sweated and sweated creating a perfect mixture of scranal sweat that'll make your boxers smell sweeter than a freshly plowed field. And I do all this, like the early farmers, to start a new beginning.

When I finish this ditch I'll have enough money to move to the coast and settle down and maybe pick up a few more cows along the way. I'll have plenty of experience in trough digging and I'll be able to keep my readers fed with a proper diet of drama, wit, gross-out humor, and racism. It's going to be hard to get from A to B. I don't have an Indian girl to lead me through the unmarked paths. What I need most of all is to have a herd that'll respect me and treat me right. Maybe even post a comment on my blog every now and again. I figure with enough cooperation I'll be able to brand all of you soon enough with my own special brand (LOL) of blogedy. So saddle yourselves up and get ready for me to ride your tight butts into the sunset. This blog ain't about ta' mosie, I don't reckon.