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A professional blogger
Today, my wife decided I needed to take a break from blogging. After the police had pried my hands away from my computer keyboard with the jaws of life, I reluctantly went outside.
I collapsed by the front door but I enjoyed the ride in the ambulance, and the doctor at accident and emergency said I didn’t need to see an eye specialist but rather, that it was natural to have a severe reaction to natural light after being inside for three years in front of a computer reading Orble posts. She also said that bodily spasms and uncontrolled vomiting and incontinence issues were natural occurrences in people of genius level intellect who had trained their minds to focus solely on Orble votes and karma. I didn’t let on that she hadn’t told me anything that I didn’t already know.
Before I had time to give her a few tips, I had to sign a form. I listed my occupation as professional blogger. I could tell the nurse who handed me the form was more than a little curious about lofty matters far beyond her intelligence, so I decided to do her a favour and enlighten and educate her.
I explained to her what a blogger was. How it was someone who didn’t live in what plebeians describe as the ‘real’ world due to a heightened perception of reality and innate superiority, and how a blogger didn’t have a real job or need one, or need to mix with real people, but knew everything intuitively and theoretically in a Google kind of way without having to go through the tedium of ‘experience’ in order to grasp or truly experience experience itself. And how experience was overrated.
She pretended she wasn’t interested, but I picked up on her deceptive body-language in that intuitive and perceptive way I pick up on the false vibrations of mistrustful virtual people through their text. I could tell she was embarrassed yet titillated by my superiority, and didn’t want to further humiliate herself in the presence of others by allowing her to do what she knew was the only appropriate course of action to take, namely fawning further, prostrating herself on the hospital corridor in order to pay adoring homage to my magnificence.
It is such an advantage for a blogger who has arrived at the point of spiritual union with inner peace itself , to comprehend not just the calming value of crystals and the supple and flexible bodily advantages of non-religious Yoga to arrive at a junction in life where one possesses not just inner peace, but a comprehensive knowledge of where the skull’s acupuncture points are, and how to drill holes in your own head in order to imbed crystals deep into the lower frontal lobes, and then stitch your own head up in such an expertly surgical manner that would put a plastic surgeon to shame, so as to appear as if your hair itself was impervious to the wind and the elements themselves.
I asked her if she needed some help to get her life on track in any area whatsoever, even though I knew the answer to the question was both an equivocal and unequivocal Yes!
She said she was fine, in that way that people say they’re okay when you ask them how they are, when they inwardly scream ‘suicidal!’ and wonder for years later why their inner voice is mute on the outside. I knew her answer was a lie, so I began to give her a few free tips, while I thought about how much more money I would have made through Google AdSense if I was blogging about this matter rather than just instructing a real person who wasn’t ready for the full force and blinding light of my own brilliance.
Being in total denial, and quite deluded about the fabric, nature and essence of life itself - like every non-blogger - she started making excuses about being busy and having other patients to attend to, workplace reforms, etc, and even had the audacity to interrupt me while I was giving her a rundown on global terrorism. 
Norm (left) gets quite upset as Charles Manson takes a break from being his Orble mentor.
After a quiet month where only a dozen or so psycho US teenagers from wholesome American families went ballistic in murder/suicide rampages at schools, bored Serial Killer Profilers at Quantico Virginia turned their skills and attention to identifying the common traits of the serial blogger, and have released the following genetic profile.
The serial blogger lives in a city. He or she has a dependency on technology and all the luxuries of modern life, but has such a warped mind he/she thinks his/her real passions lie in sitting behind his/her Microsoft/Mac PC in an ergonomically-designed Officeworks swivel-chair and matching Ikea desk with the air-conditioner on in summer and the blow-heater on in winter, in order to save the non-plastic environment and endangered species from extinction and climate change brought about by evil commercially driven capitalists running multi-national franchises.
The serial blogger is compelled to warn the world against religious fanatics and political terrorists with repetitive posts that read like a version of the Book of Mormon written by Joseph Smith in a whorehouse after being drugged by a prostitute’s Senatorial pimp.
Joseph Smith has a vision of the Orble future, and sees Jon & Charles.
The serial blogger will rail against the lifestyles of rich and famous celebrities due to the injustice of not being numbered among them, teach others anything from how to raise children properly while sitting glued to the computer blogging all night, instruct novice bloggers how to blog and earn money simultaneously without getting a real job in the real world, supply tips on nutrition, time-management and multi-tasking while ordering online, home-delivery fat crust pizzas, or give free fashion and beauty advice while surfing ‘how to become a contestant on America’s biggest loser’.
The reason my Orble blog on nutrition & car maintenenance is in the blog cemetery.
One of the favourite topics of the serial blogger is psycho-analytical introspection on the philosophical meaning of life itself, including a rundown on how to go about achieving happiness and enlightenment by adhering to the wisdom of downloaded quotes from Wikipedia.
The male serial blogger is quite a simple, transparent fellow. In general, he is quite effeminate but likes to come across as real manly in carefully chosen text, but in the private domain of reality, he does not control the TV remote or the Play Station controls, even though he is a self-confessed expert on movies, TV, DVDs, computer games and IT in general, and anything that does not involve leaving the house other than to get a job behind the latest computer and contribute something meaningful to Rupert Murdoch’s global empire, while he dreams of being the next Hollywood writer, director, and star. And is careful to put the toilet seat down after sitting on it to have a wee-wee.
Male Blogger deciding what topic to write about.
The female serial blogger is slightly more complex than the male (mirroring reality), yet there are only three simple types of this virtual vixen.
There is the emotional female yet to find love (fYTFL), the emotional female who found the wrong love (FTWLf) and the anti-male, non-patriarchal, equally-superior female (AMNPESf).
The fYTFL’s blogs will be about the emotional beauty of love and relationships she is yet to experience long-term. She might have a travel blog, a uni blog or a blog about her own mind, but travel, uni and her own mind only have their relevance in finding the man of her emotional dreams and finding after half a night together, they have so much in common and connected, agreeing on the objective beauty of excerpts from Anne Steiner Rice’s poems on Valentine’s Day and sympathy cards.
The FTWLf may also have a travel blog, post-uni, downtrodden-by-my-ex work blog, or a blog about her own mind, but travel, work and her own mind only have relevance in relation to how to avoid places her former lover frequents while she single-handedly raises their children and takes them on holidays to exotic places her and her former ‘partner’ used to frequent as a loving couple (hoping he will read them and get upset), while she teaches ‘her’ children the value of growing up in a balanced, single-parent family environment based upon the dead sea scrolls and letters of Sigmund Freud to his mother as part of their home-schooling. She will often counsel other women not to read Anne Steiner Rice.
The AMNPESf is usually a dominant, psychotic, neurotic confused spiritualist who loves sex with men [other than her father and brothers and uncle], and appears quite open and honest about her lurid desires for those unfamiliar with the known traits of schizophrenic pathological liars who are the product of child abuse. She will litter her blog with spiritual insights gleaned from communing with the spirits, and her comments will be full of niceties. Until you cross her. Then she turns into a lesbian man-hater, and changes her blog to an angst ridden tirade against a patriarchal god and men in general.
Female blogger taking a break from her 'Health and Beauty Tips' blog.
Both male and female serials bloggers are riddled with guilt, and will frequently write sorry posts, yet never change their behaviour. For some reason, they think sorry is enough for themselves, but rarely for others. The main guilt they tend to suffer from is IDHALs. (I don’t have a life syndrome), yet they continually obsess over their own lives, and wish someone would take an interest in things they find important, such as my cat or dog is sick, or it’s raining today so I have a rug over my lap while I’m typing this.
Profilers are convinced that the reason more serial bloggers are not brought to justice is the same reason more serial killers are not brought to justice. It is their ordinariness. An ordinariness that goes unnoticed by other ordinary people. Just skimming over their virtual blogs is similar to standing next to a serial killer in real life. Unless you get to know the serial killer (or the blogger by carefully reading what they write), you would never believe they are capable of such atrocities.
Heather Mills listens disinterestedly to Sir Paul's statement in court.
Your Honour,
Do you want to know a secret for the benefit of Mr Kite and the other jurors? What was typical of a day in the life of Heather and I, before the end, before her ‘revolution 9 (at last count), before the taxman, when we were in a ‘love me do’ mood? Don’t let me down, Your Honour. Don’t say ‘You can’t do that.’ or act like a Mean Mr Mustard. Hold onto your Maxwell’s silver hammer. You know what to do.
When I belonged to the Lonely Heart’s Club, I used to drive my car eight days a week, any time at all. Sometimes to nowhere, man, or on the long and winding road past the fool on the hill to Penny Lane where there’s a place I pray to Lady Madonna. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with a little help from my friends. It seems like yesterday when I saw her [Heather ] standing there with the local postman, Judas, being chased by a dog until he said, ‘Hey bulldog,’ and it ran off, cocked its leg on some Norwegian wood. Then I saw Heather Jude, come together. He grabbed a handful of her octopus’s garden intent on going the magical mystery tour on her rocky raccoon. He wanted a bit of rock n roll music. I heard her say, ‘Please Mr Postman, leave my kitten alone. Let it be.’ Then ‘Help!’ I got out. I was scared. I felt like I was back in the USSR. I began to shout, “Hey, Jude! I’ll get you!” Jude ran off. Hello, goodbye?
I should have known better than to think, ‘got to get you into my life,’ about Heather. ‘Act naturally or run for your life,’ I said to myself. But a little voice said, ‘She loves you.’ So, I turned to her, and said, ‘I want to tell you I want to hold your hand, I want to be your man’ I said, ‘I’ll give you all my loving and I’ll keep you satisfied. We can work it out when I’m 64.” She said, she said, ‘It won’t be long before you’re 70.’ Her hair was a mess. ‘Lend me your comb,’ she said. So I did. It disappeared in her hair. I said, ‘You’re going to lose that, girl.’ She said, ‘Baby you’re a rich man. One comb won’t matter.’ I should have known then she was a ‘Money. That’s what I want’ type.
A local druggie on LSD known to Heather as Elizabeth-Michelle was crashed out on the pavement. ‘I am the walrus,’ she kept saying. ‘You make me dizzy miss LIzzy-Mitch,” Heather said. Are you on drugs?’ I asked her. ‘I’m only sleeping,’ she said. ‘I’m so tired.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s alright mama,’ Heather said, so I let it be.
A blackbird flew overhead. I looked up. The clouds looked like strawberry fields, forever and ever and ever, making patterns like my ex parachuting girlfriend Lucy in the sky with diamonds on. They began to scatter. ‘Here comes the sun,’ I said. ‘Want to catch the train? I’ve got a ticket to ride the Helter Skelter at Brighton. I’ll buy you a hippy hippy shake or a yellow submarine from the Twist & Shout ice-creamery. ‘Are you asking me if ‘I’ll follow the sun?’ I nodded. ‘Why don’t we do it in the road? Please, please me? There’s no reason you’ve got to hide your love away. Then she undid my zipper and to use a local Liverpudlian expression, came in through the bathroom window, and I got a touch of the cry-baby-cry ‘while my guitar gently weeps in my eyes. It wasn’t even my birthday. All she said was, ‘Happiness is a warm gun, Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, your honour. The end.
"There wasn't enough material for a cap. I'll be using Gran's bras for that.
Part time model and full-time personal ego-stroker, Liesel Jones, was trying on her grandma’s underwear on the weekend for the annual Myer Grey Power fashion parade. Attempting to put her left leg into a stocking, and at the same time hopping all over the bedroom floor, she slipped and fell head first into a the right leg of Gran’s stockings, wrapping the suspenders around her midriff. When she stood up, Gran said, “Apart from the fact you look like you’re about to rob a bank, I see potential here.” Gran grabbed her dressmaking scissors and freed Liesel’s head. Which took quite a while, as she didn’t want to muck up her hair. “That’s better,” Gran said. “What a great look. You should wear it as a swimming cossie.” Liesel swam a few laps in Gran’s bath, and had to agree, but then went a step further. Without tripping over this time. “Why don’t we design a whole swimming cossie range for Beijing?” Liesel said to the mirror. “Are you talking to me?” Gran asked. Liesel nodded to her own reflection, and they set to work on Gran’s old pedal-powered Singer sewing machine. Both Gran and Liesel were ecstatic at the results. “What about a men’s cossie?” Gran asked. Liesel responded with, “Let’s market them as unisex cossies. Thorpy likes the full body suit and we can sell the left over ones at the Sydney Mardi Gras.” And so they did. And now Gran’s stocking cossie is all the rage. Liesel expects her Me and Gran calendar to be available at K-Mart by Saturday. All proceeds will go to buying an electric sewing machine for Gran.
[ Click here to read more ]
Wolfy in one of his cross-dressing moments.
There’s no doubt about the ancient Romans. Back when Rome was populated by shepherds and sheep, the blokes running the country decided to get one of the gods to look after the shepherds and sheep at night. So who did they choose? Lupercus. The wolf god. It’d be like getting a convicted rapist to look after a convent of virgins. But that’s the ancient Romans for you. [ Click here to read more ]
For those who missed my first Underbelly post, Underbelly (the Channel 9 TV series that isn't showing in Melbourne) started half an hour ago. I'm trying to give Melbourne peole constant updates so they don't feel like they're missing out.
The chick who gave a statement to the police, and her girlfriend (also a witness) have been put in witness protection. What a joke. Witness protection in Australia. The police have put them in a caravan at what looks like Werribee. [ Click here to read more ]
Underbelly (the Channel 9 TV series that isn't showing in Melbourne) just started.
It's really good. In the first half-hour, Vince Collosimo's character, Alphonse Gangiatano, shoots this guy, Greg Workman, who owes him money. The police turn up and interview one of the witnesses. She gives a statement but refuses to sign it. [ Click here to read more ]
Heather Mills, the former mistress of Humphrey B Bear and Paul McCartney, with her current partner Star Spangled Scientology Bear.
A spokesperson for the Prime Minster’s research department has admitted that the wording of the Sorry Speech was deemed so critical to the Labour Party’s continuing success that she spent the last week without sleep just going over and over the multitude of Sorry posts on Orble. [ Click here to read more ]
Humphrey and John Howard enjoy a racist joke together.
In a 17 page draft of a formal statement to be issued today by Humphrey's lawyer, Mr Squiggle, Humphrey has refused to say sorry to the indigenous peoples of this land primarily because he can’t speak in order to ‘say’ sorry – he’s a mute tap dancing bear. [ Click here to read more ]
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Comment by Mal
on Quantico FBI release embryonic genetic profile on serial bloggers.
Mal
I think that pic and caption is the best part of this post. The only decent bit of it to be honest. I must remember to reference us more often. We're a more interesting topic than most of the piffle and dribble on here anyway. I'm beginning to see why you like visuals with a bit of text. They tend to say so much more. I now wish I'd put a picture in this comment. I still could but it's late and I'm tired. Say hello to the Wolfgobbler for me. What made me think of her was I noticed the G-Train was back in action on the weekend. I also wondered about the NAB Cup rules. If you mark the ball on the goal-line, and you're a prodigious kick, and go back beyond the 50m line to take your kick, does that count as a super goal and 9pts? It was just one of those silly things you think about when Carlton are winning and the game is in the bag early (in time on).
Mal.