Indeed, this modern acheivement of technoscience an--all right, let's stop right here. Do me a favor, and grab yourself a mirror. Take a look.
My god.
Look again. Is it really acceptable to present yourself to me looking this way? Listen, your hair is trending towards corpse-like-stringy already, and we've got to be nearing the Dodranscentennial (I totally know how many years that word means!) of your last (non-golden) shower; would it kill you to sell enough meth for some hair product and toilet paper (or, failing that, the tissue paper stuff that department stores use to line their boxes when they gift wrap your Christmas presents? Oh, that's right. You never got a Christmas present--you're an ORPHAN! Ha! Let's all of us laugh at the orphan! Not you, though, orphan. You stare at the floor! Anyway, like I was saying, that waxy-paper stuff got me through the first three months of 2010--and your blog subscription dues paid for my anal fissure repair! Thanks, orphan!), for chrissakes?!?
Sigh. All right, that was uncalled for. It took me a long time (not really, but this might make you feel better) to build up the courage to provide you with this (necessary!!!) constructive criticism, and instead of taking it to heart (and, preferably, butt, too--SERIOUSLY, clean your ass!!), you interrupted with seemingly-interminable questioning: What's the best hairstyle for me? Who is the NCAA's all-time leading rusher? Six Simple Steps to a Beautiful Backyard Garden! (This one isn't a question, fuckstick!) How can I tell if I'm pregnant? Is Charlie Sheen going crazy? What are the hottest spring fashion trends? Where can I find the hottest lesbian college girls? How many calories can I eat in a day? Do you have a mortgage calculator?
It is apparent that you value my time as much as your appearance. Alas, my schedule requires my ever-present attention from all sides (Note to self: Cancel partnership with Bukakke Scheduling Corporation. Also, hire Dave's Towel and Hose-off Service.), and I don't have the time to be providing answers to all of your "astute" queries. What kind of answers would I provide if I did have the time? ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKING QUESTIONS!!
Anyway, to gladly answer your question, my answers would look something like this: NFL Draft Results! The Controversy over Pippa's Dress! Obama "Birther" Controversy Re-Ignites--Certificate a Fake! Zsa Zsa Gabor--Still Alive! Meghan McCain--Apparently a Person! Hottest Twitter Trends! Drunk College Girls Party Down! Charlie Sheen with Porn Star! Porn! Porn! Pussy, pussy, Porn!
So, anyway, where was I headed before your pallid countenance, swollen paunch, and stinkity-poopity-poopy-butt caused me to derail? That's right! Search Engine Optimization (SEO) techniques! (NEW ACRONYM ALERT! "SEO" stands for "Search Engine Optimization"! Just another addition to your acron-ulary, courtesy of ILW! If y---what's that? You don't remember what "ILW" stands for?!? You need to smoke way less pot. Also, share more of your pot.)
So, what was I gonna say about SEO (knowledge put into action! I'm the greatest teacher this side of "Swingin'" Dick Raimer, who, despite his current prison sentence for lascivious acts with a child--even though everyone knows that
Wait, no! I wanted to welcome in the new subordinates to the Incredibly Loud Family! (Also, I wanted to coin the term "Incredibly Loud Family," which you are most certainly NOT authorized to use, or even say--including, but not limited to, the case whereupon one should encounter or belong to a family of incredible loudness--without authorization from the aforementioned NetLord persuant to Article VI.0492 of Chapter 292 of the Charter Act of Internet Phraseology in accordance with Internet Law as established by Incredibly Loud Law! Stealing Money from Dickholes by Enforcing Bogus Rules! in 2009. Seriously, this is a legal matter, baby, and suin' you's no fun!)
At this point, I feel I should pause to let the new readers catch their collective eye-breath. You've scanned an awful lot of words to this point, and the timid yet erratic movements of your mouse (that's right; I've inserted a Trojan into your computer--which is just as fuckin' hot as it sounds--and can now monitor your every maneuver. Feelin' pretty bummed out that you went extra kinky with the porn this afternoon, huh?) betray your confusion. You came here for breaking celebrity gossip (and/or next-door chicks showin' some nip/a bit-o'-puss), and found yourself immediately enthralled (and, indeed, indoctrinated). But how on Earth did I lure you into this utopia to begin with?
Ever heard of a full circle? Well this, minions, is the very defi--you haven't? How can you have lived on this fuckin' planet long enough to--what's that? Oh. I see. Hahah. Little bit of egg on my face, it would appear, eh? Well, at least you've heard of that phrase. I mean, it's a pretty common idiom...then again, you've heretofore demonstrated little-to-no understanding of even the most basic of concepts...so, perhaps you'll forgive my presumption.
Anyway, here's where all of these new, crazy ideas come full circle: SEO techniques! Again! By choosing a title that reflects the kind of stories that the average Internet user (that's you, new visitors--keep reachin' for that lowest common denominator!) is searching for, your site is more likely to show up in search queries on the world's most popular engines (Infoseek, Lycos, Ask Jeeves, et al.). So, what you're reading is an awe-inspiring, life-altering blog entry that is merely under the guise of some bullshit "article" about whatever wholly irrelevant nonsense it is that you new readers care about.
Now, I don't want to get too deep (It's okay if that turned you on, but what follows won't be sexual. Sorry.) into the inner-workings (That do anything for ya? If not, work on your imagination.) of the magical land of SEO. After all, I'm the one scraping the $25 bi-annual dues together for membership with the International Council of the Internet--all that's asked of you is to sit here, read this, and imagine (then execute) ways to donate the money for my membership dues! Anyway, suffice it to say that, in addition to query prediction, certain keywords can increase your searchability and overall relevance as well.
Of course, some keywords are more effective than others. What sort of keywords? I dunno; you tell me, pussy! What kind of hard young dick would ask a silly question like that? You hot teenagers (18+) just think you can sit there all day, playing with your boobs, stripping your friends, and filming your own at-home lesbian orgies. Even Charlie Sheen, if consulting with Zsa Zsa Gabor (I hate to keep bringing her up, but seriously, she's at the fucking top of Yahoo!'s "Trending" list just about every fucking day!) at Westminster Abbey while Bree Olsen fucked whichever other porn star it is that Charlie Sheen is fucking in front of Charlie and Zsa Zsa in a session that was only broken up when American Idol came on television to announce the Official Rules for American Idol Voting, which became all the more interesting when American Idol presented the Top Ten American Idols of All-Time, wouldn't be crazy enough to give away the secrets of using popular keywords to enhance your searchablility--and I'll be godDAMNed if I'm gonna be crazier than Charlie Sheen!
So, in a nutshell, SEO allows a given search engine's CrawlerBots (almost certain to enslave mankind at some point) to identify key words, questions, and phrases on your website, and for your website to show up with higher priority for a greater number of relevant searches. Pretty easy, huh? Actually, it's insanely difficult, beyond your comprehension, and not worth explaining any further.
But, wait: How did I acquire my loyal subjects to begin with? You guessed it: SEO techniques! (The circle becomes full once more.) With what bait were they lured? Thankfully (because, seriously, I'm beyond sick of your questions at this point), the Internet holds the answer. Utilizing Google Webmaster Tools and Blogcounter, I've been able to track the various terms that search engine users have used to find this blog. Busted!! Here's a list of some of the more illustrative search queries, and what they turned up here at ILW:
*"Marshal Ney"--Marshal Michel Ney, known as one of the more stimulating figures in French history, is (possibly) one of the hottest search trends on the Interwebs. This curious surfer was lucky to come across this post.
*"nowsuckonthat.blogspot.com"--It seems a bit easier to simply type that address into your browser--and yet, this user was fortunate to happen across this entry, no doubt changing their Net-xperience for the rest of time.
*"young boy removing hisdress upto panti"--I'm really not certain which keywords made this blog a relevant retrieval for this query, but rest assured, I am proud. No judgement here--I can only hope that this fantasy was satisfied here at ILW.
*"Why athena made penelope more attractive"--The pedagogical value in this blog has never been more apparent. This user found my insightful close reading of The Odyssey a particularly valuable Sherpa along the trail of education--here's a big "You're welcome!" for the A, dude!
*"alright i'm getting dizzy just enjoy the party"--Let's hope that this site was a welcome respite from the world of socialization! Also, props on your ability to read--and scout out new blogs--while fucked up at a party!
*"cocksucking contest"--If we held one, I missed it. Bummer.
*1000 iterations of "cum-hungry cocksuckers"--First of all, I hyphenated "cum-hungry" for the user in this replication. Most search engine users disregard grammar whilst jacking off. Anyway, there were about 70 versions of this phrase. I assume there must be a real dearth in the amount of porn on the Internet for Google to readily throw my site into the "relevant" category for these searches. Better luck next time!
So, as you can see, I have a real need to diversify my following. I couldn't be more stoked to have Young-Boy-Removing-Hisdress-Upto-Panti Guy here, but he can't carry this load (though he could probably take it) all by himself. Simply put: I need
By now, my fanboys-'n-dolls consider this entry the biggest bag of sellout this side of Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water. (If you understood that reference, punch yourself in the face three times--one for each dollar bill, y'all.)
However, loyal denizens need not dismay, for your adoration goes neither unheeded nor unnoticed. With this in mind, I'd like to do my loyal followers (you too, newbies--just don't tell the others!) the favor of sharing a true story from my past.
It was tenth grade, and it was almost summer. Things were going well enough. I was on the football team, and leading the squad with 43 points and 12 doubles per bout. While the others dealt with the agony of pubescence--acne, social anxiety, hairless genitals (talkin' to you, Mikey Alopeecciano!)--I enjoyed the spoils of near-superhuman cognition, and a body that forced Adonis to commit suicide (which is a pretty cool story that I'll tell you sometime). Yes, my face was without blemish, I was a star of athletic sporting games, and I had a pube-bush that was regularly inhaled by the young ladies who desperately mouth-grasped at my weiner. I was all that and a bag of chips (a common accompaniment during those times), but there was one young man's attention that I simply could not grab, and as spring faded into summer, and summer back into spring, I grew more and more perturbed. By the time that spring had sprung into the winter of ninth grade, I was downright distraught.
The boy was known by just one name: Stripes. Rotund, silent, and possibly retarded (medically, not in a cruel way), Stripes was quite the enigma. His wardrobe, impetus for his nickname, contained but one shirt--a light brown sweater with solid gray stripes that ran horizontally. The sweater got quite the workout (even more than my Christ-abs), particularly when considering that Stripes was infamous for another quirk: Puking in public.
Summer had turned into winter, which finally gave way to glorious fall. As the outside world burst into fall's full bloom, the world of academia slid headlong into end-of-term exams, or as they're better known to students: Finals. Hoping to advance into 7th grade, I knew I had to pass my history final. Of course, our high school had but one history teacher (the dreaded Mr. Anuz), and his tests were notorious for their difficulty. I had finished my exam in the first 90 seconds, and was trying my hardest to focus on pray-wishing for the success of my classmates. Suddenly, the back of the room exploded into unadulterated commotion. Students leaped from their chairs, leaving unfinished booklets in their wake, desperately trying to pull their desks and bags from the eye of the storm, where Stripes, in a futile attempt to keep a hand over his mouth, was spraying chunder in five different directions.
The talk in school that afternoon was that Stripes's hork had smelled like Peach Schnapps. As a college senior, I was too young to know what alcohol smelled like, but I played along anyway. In reality, I had been too distracted to even notice, for as Stripes was led away from the scene of his crime, his eyes had met mine, and there they remained until the nurse had pulled him from the room entirely.
Some things never change, and when summer signaled the beginning of my 14th year (and the dreaded 2nd grade), I was reminded of this fact immediately. It was 2nd period, and I had just finished slaying the aria in Buccacinniocci's "Mio Babbino plays The Magic Flute" during Choir practice. When the music stopped, I was strangely but acutely aware of a set of eyes boring into my existence. I looked up. The eyes belonged to Stripes. At the time, I thought nothing of it. The director excused me to perform my hourly ritual of honey gargling and tilapia snorting (gotta keep the vocal chords fresh!), and the rest of the choir waited patiently for my return. When I strode back, fresh with fish and honey, into the room and took my place atop the director's lap, I felt again that my soul was being raped, and my eyes looked up to find that same set of brown-'n-grays. That shirt really did bring out his eyes.
So, the year went on, and Stripes ralphed again, this time backstage just before the choir was to perform at Tantamount, the city's largest theater. As a fifth grader growing with confidence, I had accepted the fact that Stripes just didn't seem to like me (and also, I was old enough to know that his puke did smell like Peach Schnapps!). Sure, he looked at me--so did everyone else! While his eyes never seemed to stray from my person, not once had the chap even so much as breathed in my direction. Where was the explicit adoration, the exaltation, the servitude, the gratitude? Indeed, the school year was winding to a close as summer's icy winds rolled into spring's sweltering rainfog, and I thought that junior high would end with nary a word from a boy whose attention I so desired.
It was the last day of school, and I had just finished a grueling session of providing personalized yearbook messages for the entirety of the student body and faculty. Swinging by my locker one last time, I swept the last of its possessions into my bag, which I swung over my shoulder before slamming the door shut. The end of the school year was ordinarily a torrent of emotion--so many accomplishments, so many friends, so much love. You put 1,000 pubescents together for 180 days, and it's going to foster an environment of teamwork and family. With a galvanizing force like me, our school was like a giant caterpillar: One giant, awesome brain, and a bunch of legs that helped get me to the top of the hill. But as the door swung shut on the school year, I remained tormented. Why wouldn't Stripes buy in?
As I headed down the hallway towards the parking lot one final time (high-fiving janitors and doing a bunch of other cool shit, too), I saw a figure underneath the Exit sign, which, in this moment, seemed to shine like 50-60 guys holding up a bunch of those really strong light-thingers that they use to light up baseball stadiums and U2 concerts 'n stuff. Suddenly, the figure became clear, and my breath stopped in my chest (before my super-strong lungs forced it out of my mouth). It was Stripes.
As I reached the doorway, time seemed to stand still. In a moment that wouldn't have been more surreal had I been simultaneously raped by David Lynch, our eyes met, and Stripes's beautiful mouth opened just enough to utter one simple phrase: "In case you're wondering why I'm always staring at you in class and stuff, it's because I like you." Stunned, I offered a brief, "Um, thank you." After having tender sex with the lad (not really, but just in case Stripes has tracked me down via this blog, I thought I'd offer him this fantasy. Good sleuthin', Stripesy-Boy!), I went home and masturbated to the knowledge that I had won another fan.
So, to my readers both old and new, the message of this story should be clear (and no doubt would be, if you didn't suffer from such terrible reading comprehension skills): I need your undying attention and affection, but yours alone will never be enough (sorry!). In adolescence and adulthood, I've held much of the world under my thumb--but it will never be enough until each and every last human falls in line.
So, old readers, that's why I used these fancy Internet tricks to scoop up some noobs. Noobs, don't mind those old fuckers; they're just jealous of your sexy youthful vigor. Together, you form a family, and your collective worship is powerful. I need your love, and I feed from your love. Narcissism is the better part of valor, and without you, my valor levels would be pretty low.
So, the message is two-fold: As usual, help me spread the word! Facebook updates really seem to do the trick (I can track where you came from, remember, Mr. PotWeed?), and you can even follow ILW on Facebook and Twitter (FUCKING DO IT ALREADY!!!!). I have some really cool stuff planned, but if a tree falls in the forest and only idiots are there to hear it, some of those idiots are going to get crushed and killed, so we need to make sure there are plenty of idiots around to hear the tree fall, survive, and then tell others where they could also hear the tree fall. But, like Stripes before you, your silent awe is not enough. Use the comment boxes, or shoot me an e-mail (typing instructions are possibly available at your local library).
And with that, I send you off into that good night.
You're we--WAIT!! I almost forgot! I actually did have a Hot Amateur Selfshot to share with you!!!
You're welcome.
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