The Easy Way
As I partook of my sorta daily ramble along the Blog-O-Sphere, I was struck by the fact that many, many blogs have the "no comment" thing selected. Said bloggers, although well within their rights, are really doing things the hard way. I mean, sure, if you are still griping about Sacco & Vanzetti or railing against the Civilian Conservation Corps, you may wish to turn a deaf, uh, screen to those among us who might wish to tether you ever closer to reality.
But there is a very easy way to avoid comments on your blog. Talk about your car.
This is because cars are SUCH a personal thing that nobody will look at the matter in the same way as you do, and certainly nobody in your everyday life. Write about your Ford 350 4x4 and they'll just yawn at the country club. Mention your 1926 Marmon Meteor and the guys at the firm will roll their eyes. And so on.
Me, I like vintage Italian sports cars. At best, I get bemused glances when expressing my preferences. Sometimes the reaction is incredulousness, sometimes outright hostility. But when I put digit to keyboard, the reaction is a blissful silence. Nobody gives a #$%&.
Still, I love my car. Richard, the Italo-Jamaican wizard, set the beast running in fine fettle again and all is right with the world. Frankly, there is nothing more glorious than being in a beautiful, screaming-atomic-tomato-red sports car tooling down the highways on a mild, sunny day; while the rest of the world has to make do with slothful minivans or lumbering SUVs in the slush and drizzle of late-winter America.
So what if it doesn't have power anything?
But there is a very easy way to avoid comments on your blog. Talk about your car.
This is because cars are SUCH a personal thing that nobody will look at the matter in the same way as you do, and certainly nobody in your everyday life. Write about your Ford 350 4x4 and they'll just yawn at the country club. Mention your 1926 Marmon Meteor and the guys at the firm will roll their eyes. And so on.
Me, I like vintage Italian sports cars. At best, I get bemused glances when expressing my preferences. Sometimes the reaction is incredulousness, sometimes outright hostility. But when I put digit to keyboard, the reaction is a blissful silence. Nobody gives a #$%&.
Still, I love my car. Richard, the Italo-Jamaican wizard, set the beast running in fine fettle again and all is right with the world. Frankly, there is nothing more glorious than being in a beautiful, screaming-atomic-tomato-red sports car tooling down the highways on a mild, sunny day; while the rest of the world has to make do with slothful minivans or lumbering SUVs in the slush and drizzle of late-winter America.
So what if it doesn't have power anything?
Comments
Wait, you said that just to get a comment, didn't you? And I fell right into your little trap. Curses!
Sure, it has eleventy power outlets, and a DVD player thingy. It also has room for flats and flats of flowers which TFBIM will plant in anticipation of killing.
It's useful in its own way.
Now, I would guesstimate that the carpool bitches who may be habitués of your sphere of influence and almost certainly live in fear of you, do so not as the result of your choice in transportation appliances.
And while I did get a comment out of you, it was because I slagged your vehicle-kind, not because my car is so @#$%ing cool, which it is.
--P
It's one thing to not care what one drives, quite another for that sad act to be obvious.
-J.