I don’t like your blog because it’s 2006, two thousand and six for goodness’ sake, and we’ve moved on haven’t we? These days we’re all posting pictures of our shoes to Flickr, or sending videos of our friends burping to YouTube, or doing whatever the hell it is you’re supposed to do on MySpace, and no one’s interested in your free-text web ramblings any more. You might as well be writing with a quill, grandad. Blogging’s so five years ago. Get with the programme.
I don’t like your blog because it’s all about you. Remember that cartoon in Private Eye that had someone saying ‘I’m just going to update my blog’, and in the pull-back-and-reveal we see him typing ‘Me me me me me me me’ at his keyboard? That’s you, that is. Roll up, roll up, and look at the astounding Mr Arrogant, expecting everyone to hang on his every syllable. Please, give us all a break and be less self-centred for a change. Write about trees. Write about flowers. Write about the colour orange. Anything. Just don’t write about you for once.
I don’t like your blog because it’s never about you. It’s all about Things That Have Gone on in Some Universe, but whose, goodness knows. I don’t know the first thing about you, and I’m desperate, in a non-creepy-stalker-like-way of course, for you to show some humanity. Your computer’s got more soul than you put into your blog. Just start breathing a little. Write about your loves, your hates, your passions, what keeps you going from day to day. Just write about you for once. Go on, I’m listening.
I don’t like your blog because it’s always about your opinions. And you want to know my opinion? It’s that there’s a good reason why media commentators are paid so much, and to them, you can’t even hold a torch with a battery that ran out ten years ago. Reading your blog is like trawling through sludge. It’s like watching a film of Jeremy Clarkson in a tank of treacle, slowed down a hundred times. And don’t get me started on your comments section. It’s just a gathering of the clans, everyone bleating their approval of your back-of-an-envelope thought patterns, only stopping to bludgeon anyone who suggests the other side might have a point. Face it, your blog will never change anyone’s mind. You might as well write about the cheese sandwich you had for lunch. It’d be more illuminating.
I don’t like your blog because it’s never about your opinions. Are you really just a trampoline that the world bounces off? Aren’t you ever moved? Aren’t you ever angered? Tell me how you look at life, ’cause I’m dying to know. Tick the appropriate box, one to five, and don’t bother with the ‘Don’t know’ square. Write about the government. Write about the weather. Write about the fluffy clouds in the sky. Look, just write about that sandwich you had for lunch. Was it cheese?
I don’t like your blog because you blog too much. Every time I fire up my bloglist, you’re always there on the top, ooh look, aren’t you a good blogger, giving us the choicest morsels from your life, whether you’re at your desk or on the road. Please, for everyone’s sake, calm down. Remember, dear friend, that over-excitement hath a patron saint, and his name is Scrappy Doo. In the immortal words of Vic Reeves, you’re making me dizzy. Please let me sit down for a while. Unplug that keyboard. Delete that mobile blogging number from your phone. Take it easy. The world will still revolve on its axis. Trust me.
I don’t like your blog because you blog too little. An elephant takes about 22 months to give birth. That’s the time it’s taken you to write two blog entries. And that elephant’s going to be around for 70 years: I stopped thinking about your blog after 70 seconds. Please, just crawl out from your bunker once in a while. Twice a year would do. I’ve invested all this time in reading your blog, and now you’re taking advantage of my loyalty. So don’t try my patience. If you’re taking longer between blog entries than the Stone Roses took between albums, maybe it’s time you split too.
I don’t like your blog because you write too much. I’m just too busy to listen to your 832 words of non-spell-checked, poorly punctuated ramblings that you just have to get out of your head this minute now. If I wanted to listen to your stream of conciousness, I’d plug into your hypothalamus. This’ll stun you; you don’t need to write down everything that’s entered your head since your last visit to a keyboard. Edit it a bit. Cut it down. Is your sub-clause (no matter how well-crafted) really necessary?
I don’t like your blog because you write too little.
I don’t like your blog, because you’re all of the above, and so am I.