I recently said I would be the arbiter of blog wars, someone needing to just e-mail me with the subject “WAR!!!” and I would handle the formal announcements. Before you begin choosing sides, though, I have some words I hope you — nay – the entire blogosphere take heed of.
The blogopshere is the future of political commentary – this I declare as fact. We, meaning both blog writers and blog readers, stand as pioneers of this new media. Unlike the days of old where some stodgy fools with their own agendas sit in back rooms deciding what information should be disseminated to the public, we now have a true democracy of news and commentary, where we choose which stories become the talk of the town, where we decided what ideas are the best. A democracy, yes?
No.
While we have eyes with which to read, and fingers with which to type, there is one whom decides what gets seen beyond us cherished few. You know whom I talk of. And, when one rules, it is not a democracy; it is a dictatorship.
I submit to you this. One sits atop, far outnumbering the rest of us in traffic. To many – to too many – the blogoshpere is but one: Instapundit.com. They come to see what we are all about, and all there is is Glenn Reynolds and what he decides to quote, perhaps adding the occasional commentary of “Indeed” or “Hmm”.
Now, there are many crimes of Glenn Reynolds, both real and imagined, and all he should pay for. Now, some may say my grudge against him is personal, being I was upset that he neglected to link to my blogography on my blogiversary, but don’t you see how that was a strike against us all? That blogography was very informative to new bloggers, and the last he wants is more bloggers to threaten his stranglehold on the blogosphere.
Still, even today, I offered him an olive branch. He has yet to link to one of my beloved In My World™ posts, so I e-mailed him the link to today’s since I thought it was a good starting point for someone who had never read one before. And you know what he did?
He spat at me.
Not just me, but all of you! For he mocked and derided anyone who enjoys my posts. He told me we are all fools, and that he would never link to one of my In My World™ posts. He said he knows that doing so would steal too much traffic away from him, traffic he clings to like a greedy monkey clinging to its bananas.
Of course, he did not specifically say any of this as he did not respond to the e-mail in any way whatsoever. Yes, you heard me right; he ignored me! Me, Frank J.! That’s not just a slap against me, it’s a slap against all my readers and all like bloggers. You know he read the e-mail. You know he reads all the e-mails. But we are nothing to him. He sits upon his dark throne, sipping his puppy, while scanning the blogosphere for a few links that will not threaten his power.
No more, I say.
No more!
I spit upon my Instapundit permalink. I shiver at the touch of his wretched Instlanches. And I especially mock and deride his 74,000 daily visitors. That’s right. His tens of thousands of visitors is so pitiful it makes me laugh. For there millions our there, millions and millions who will soon see the power of the blogosphere… but only when this obstacle is removed.
Instapundo delenda est!
The Enemy must be destroyed, and then true democracy will come to the blogosphere. They will see our brillance, no longer filtered through the one, and they will be awed. So we must strike against Instapundit.com, and we must strike against it so hard with so loud a battle cry that the isolated tribes in Africa will shiver in fear. In the sound of battle, everyone will soon take note of the blogosphere, and, when the dust settles and the Enemy has fallen, they will no longer look to the Rush Limbaugh on the radio for commentary, they will not look to O’Reilly on the T.V. for analysis, and they will not look to the New York Times for news… THEY WILL LOOK TO US!!!
I need not just blogs to help in the battle, but blog readers as well. All people of all crafts need to join together and get the blogosphere the recognition it deserves. We need people to make banners, people to get the attention of the media, and people to keep an eye on the Enemy as his scheming to stop us.
We are the future, people. Our actions now will decide the fate of the world. And your grandchildren will ask you about the great blog war and upon which side you stood. Will you tell them you sided when the Enemy, forever to be his slave? Will you tell them you sat on the sidelines like the Swiss, mired in irrelevancy? Or will you tell them you took a stand for freedom, for democracy, and for intelligent news commentary?
Those are your choices. Bow before Instapundit.com and I promise you continued enslavement and a weakened blogosphere, but follow me and I promise you the respect you deserve, hundreds of millions of readers to split between us, and bag and bags of money.
WHO IS WITH ME?!!!!
Archive of entries posted on 13th August 2003
Lunch Time Announcements
No Frank Answers™ today. I have a lot of old questions I need to sort through and see if I’ll ever answer, but still send new ones in. I especially like science questions.
People seemed to like the Bite-Sized Wisdom™ piece yesterday, so I’ll probably do that more in the future. It’s a good way to use some ideas I have that aren’t big enough to make a full post about.
My primer on firearms will continue tomorrow with a discussion on calibers.
I have read the Aquaman comic book, and plan to put my thoughts into words for that on Friday.
You may have noticed I now have a rotating poll on my main page (it will change to a different one each time you refresh). This was done at the behest of Jennifer who, by a majority vote, smells like a monkey. I’ve just added two more and will keep adding as it strikes my fancy. I can have up to fifty of them running at once.
I’ve gotten a number of war declarations so far, but I have martial arts tonight after work, so don’t expect an update on that until tomorrow. Then, let’s get the fight’n started! Only the strong shall survive!
In My World: Ride of the Warmongerers
“What are you guys doing?” White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan asked as he approached President Bush, Dick Cheney, and Donald Rumsfeld who were all wearing black leather jackets and wielding weapons of switchblades, bats, and chains.
“We’re starting a biker gang called the Warmongerers,” Bush answered.
“Is that a good idea?” Scott inquired dubiously.
“All the cool presidents were in biker gangs in their spare time,” Bush explained, “Reagan cracked skulls every weekend, Nixon stabbed more people that you can count, Eisenhower was wanted by the law in most states, Teddy Roosevelt used to exercise his big stick while speeding on his hog, and Lincoln used to jump school buses on his Harley.”
“Enough talking,” Rumsfeld said, “I want to smash something!”
“You coming,” Cheney asked Scott.
“I don’t know if this is smart,” Scott said.
“The guy is a dweeb,” Bush remarked, “Let’s ditch him.”
“I’m not a dweeb!” Scott protested.
“Uh oh; my old lady is coming!” Bush exclaimed, “Everyone act cool.”
Laura Bush walked by and looked at the four of them. “This looks suspiciously like a biker gang,” she commented.
“No, we’re just getting ready for Bible study, ain’t we guys?” Bush said. Rumsfeld and Cheney nodded in agreement.
“Mr. McClellan, is this true?” Laura asked Scott.
Bush pointed a switchblade at Scott and gave him a stern look. “Uh… yeah… Bible study,” Scott answered.
“Alright,” Laura said, not looking quite convinced, “but I better not hear otherwise later.”
She walked off, all the while keeping an eye on the four until she was out of sight.
“Thanks for covering for us, Scott,” Bush told him, “You can be part of the gang now. We all have cool biker names.” He pointed to Rumsfeld. “He’s Mad Dog.” Then to Cheney. “He’s Chainman Charlie… and I’m Tex. Your biker name will be ‘Skippy’.”
“Skippy?”
Condoleezza Rice then walked by. “Hey, Condi,” Bush called out, “Do you want to be a biker slut?”
“Someone has to stay here and keep watch of the country,” she answered.
“But it’s the weekend!” Bush exclaimed, “International incidents never happen on the weekend.”
“Hey, do you want Colin Powell trying to make peace with everyone while we’re all gone?” Condi asked.
“Okay, stay,” Bush grumbled. He then turned to his gang. “Let’s get rolling!”
“Yeah!” Rumsfeld and Cheney shouted, while Scott looked warily at one of the motorcycles.
“I’ve never driven one of these before,” Scott said, “Do you at least have some helmets.”
“Of course not,” Cheney answered, “If I wreck my hog, I don’t want to live!”
“Just get rolling, Skippy,” Bush commanded, “Time to show this town who the real badasses are!”
“Yee-ha!” Bush shouted as he rode his Harley over the top of the French ambassador’s limousine.
“I surrender!” squealed the ambassador.
“Not accepted, Pierre!” Cheney answered, smashing one of the limo’s windows with his chain as he rode by.
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld shouted, smashing the windshield with his bat.
“Now hit him with the Molotov cocktail, Skippy!” Bush called out to Scott.
Scott threw a bottle at the limo, which shattered and splashed liquid everywhere to no effect.
“You’re supposed to light it, dumbass!” Cheney yelled.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not very experienced with this sort of thing,” Scott said.
The limo drove off. “Aww, he got away!” Bush whined. “You have to shape up, Skippy.”
“I’m trying,” Scott said, “but did I really have to get a green mohawk?”
“Hey, we decided one of us needed to have a mohawk and it was a 3 to 1 vote that it should be you,” Bush said.
“I want some drinking!” Cheney yelled.
“And I want some fighting!” Rumsfeld shouted.
“Off to the biker bar!” Bush yelled as he drove off, Rumsfeld and Cheney following with Scott wobbling far behind.
Soon they were to a shady looking bar and parked their motorcycles. “We need to find the toughest guy in their and beat him up,” Bush told his gang, “That will show everyone we’re boss.”
“I don’t know if this is all legal,” Scott stated uneasily.
“We’re above the law!” Rumsfeld shouted.
They entered the bar and Bush walked over to the bartender. “Who is the toughest guy here?”
“That would be Murder’n Carl,” the bartender said, pointing over to a massive man who looked quite unstable, “He just got out of jail… for murder!”
“Thinks he’s so tough because he’s ripped people apart with his bare hands,” Bush scoffed, “Go beat the crap out of him, Skippy.”
“What?”
“Hey, Murder’n Carl!” Bush yelled, “Skippy says the reason they let you out of prison is because you’re such a pansy!”
“Then Skippy is dead!” Murder’n Carl yelled, grabbing Scott and lifting him into the air.
“Eep.” Scott uttered as his life passed before his eyes.
“Hey, look over there, Tex” Cheney told Bush.
At a nearby table sat the Warmongerers’ rivals. “Hey, Scott,” Bush called out, “Stop getting beaten up by the murderer for a second and get over here.”
Dizzy and in pain, Scott stumbled over to Bush. “What?”
“See over there?” Bush said, pointing at the table, “There’s our rival gang, the Hell’s Democrats.”
“That’s Governor Howard Dean, Representative Richard Gephardt, Senator Ted Kennedy, and Senator John Kerry,” Scott stated, a bit surprised.
“Yeah, but in the biker world they are known respectively as The Dean, Dick the Knife, Big Fat Teddy K, and By the Way I Served in Vietnam.”
“Let’s kill ’em!” Rumsfeld shouted.
“Be cool, Mad Dog,” Bush said, and then slowly walked over to the Hell’s Democrats. “So,” he chuckled, “If it isn’t Deany Weenie, John Fairy, Big Fat Teddy Gay, and Dick… uh…” He thought for a moment. “Gephardt… Gephardt… What sounds like Gephardt?” He looked back to the Hell’s Democrats. “….and Dick Dumbfart.” Bush turned to his own gang. “Best I could come up with on short notice.”
The Hell’s Democrats all stood up. “We’re going to rule this town!” Kerry shouted, “Just like I ruled when I was in Vietnam!”
“Yeah, you ain’t so tough!” Dean said.
Big Fat Teddy K just chewed on a shank of ham.
“You guys think you can beat us,” Bush laughed, “but you’re just a bunch of jokers. By this time next year, the economy will have improved and we’ll have found WMD’s in Iraq… and then we’ll make you eat them!”
Big Fat Teddy K just laughed.
“Hey, Chainman Charlie,” Gephardt said snidely, “I see you ain’t in hiding no more.”
“Keep it up and the undisclosed location my foot will be in is your ass!” Cheney threatened.
“You guys are all talk, and I know talk, having been in Vietnam,” Kerry said.
“You’re soon going to be known as the haughty, French-looking Massachusetts Democrat, who by the way served in Vietnam and got ripped a new one by Rumsfeld!” Rumsfeld shouted.
Senator Joe Liberman then showed up. “Hey! There is no need for violence,” he said, “I think we can settle this in a bipartisan…”
“Quiet, Jew-boy!” Big Fat Teddy K shouted as he broke a pool cue over Liberman’s head.
“I’m gonna cut me a ‘publican!” Gephardt yelled, pulling out a knife.
“Now why don’t you guys back off before you get hurt,” Dean said with a smirk.
“Know what,” Bush said, “I think it’s time for a preemptive strike… AGAINST YOUR FACE!” Bush then punched Howard Dean. Cheney whipped out his chain and knocked down Dick Gephardt.
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld shouted as he picked up John Kerry and tossed him across the room.
“Grerawerr!” Big Fat Teddy K snarled as he charged Scott who quickly tried to hide under a table.
“Eep.”
“I keep telling you,” Condi said with frustration over the phone, “I had the nuclear launch codes, but I misplaced them. Now, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if Finland isn’t nuked by the time the President gets back… Yeah, that’s right; he explicitly ordered Finland to be nuked while he was away… Hey, I’m not the one who is going to lose his job if Finland exists an hour from now… Yes, and he approved me to get that pizza on his credit card… President Bush is going to be so mad if he heard you denied me that pizza!”
“You in here, Dr. Rice?” Colin Powell called out from the hallway.
“Don’t come in the war room!” Condi shouted, quickly trying to hide her map of the world with marks on it such as “Bomb here”, “Invade here”, and “Genocide here”. “I’m not decent!”
“You were supposed to have the pardons on you!” Cheney said angrily to Bush.
Rumsfeld just snarled and held onto the prison bars.
“I’m sorry!” Bush exclaimed, “I left them in my other biker jacket!”
“I can’t believe it!” Scott cried, “I’m actually in prison!”
“Keep coo’ yo,” Bush told him, “Keep coo’.”
“Okay, you troublemakers,” the police chief said, “I’m letting you guys out for one press conference.”
“Put a good spin on all this,” Bush ordered Scott as they walked out to the prison steps where the press was waiting.
“Is it true that Bush and his administration is involved in a violent biker gang called the ‘Warmongerers’?” asked one reporter.
“Now that’s just silly,” Scott said with a forced laugh.
“The French ambassador has told the police you harassed him,” said another reporter.
“I’ll murder him dead!” Bush shouted.
Scott raised his hand to silence Bush. “As we all know, the French are a race of liars,” Scott told the press, “Only a fool would believe anything they say. Any other questions?”
Melinda Hawkish from Fox News stepped forward. “That green mohawk you have is so gay.”
“That’s not a question,” Scott answered with annoyance.
“Uh oh; my old lady is coming!” Bush shouted, “Everyone hide your microphones and cameras.”
“What’s happening here?” Laura Bush demanded.
“We’re just having a Bible study, dear,” Bush answered innocently.
“On the steps of the police station?” Laura asked with suspicion.
“Yes; Police Chief O’Malley was nice enough to let us have our study here.”
“Is that true, Chief O’Malley?”
He looked into the air. “Uh… sure, it’s true.”
“And why does Mr. McClellan have a mohawk?” Laura asked.
“You know Scott,” Bush said with laugh, “He’s an idiot; doesn’t know how to present himself for Bible study.”
“It’s true; I am an idiot ma’am,” Scott stated.
Laura kept looking at them all with suspicion. “From the clueless expression on these people here, they look a lot like reporters,” Laura said, “Reporters assembled to hear a story about some lawlessness related to a biker gang.”
“It’s nothing like that, honey,” Bush stated, “We’re just studying our Bible stories.”
“Which story are you studying, then?” Laura inquired.
“Uh… the one where Jesus… uh… fights the lions and… uh… blows up the Death Star.”
“That doesn’t sound like a real Bible story!” Laura exclaimed.
“Uh, Mrs. Bush,” Scott interjected, “You see, being a bunch of doofuses, we forgot our Bibles and had to try and draw the stories from memory… and… well, we’re all really dumb.”
“It’s true,” Bush said and everyone nodded in agreement.
“Alright then,” Laura said beginning to walk away as she kept a stern stare at Bush, “I’m heading to the store and am going to pick up your diarrhea medicine.”
“Thanks, dear,” Bush said with a smile while everyone snickered.
Once Laura was out of view, everyone let out a sigh of relief. “That was a close one,” Bush said, and then patted Scott on the back. “Quick thinking there, Skippy. You’ll make a great member of our violent biker gang yet.” He then remembered the press was still there. “Which does not actually exist and did not smash up the German ambassador’s limo.”
“It was the French ambassador’s limo we didn’t smash up,” Cheney reminded him.
“Oh yeah,” Bush laughed, smacking himself in the forehead.
“Grerawerr!” came a snarl from nearby.
“It’s Big Fat Teddy K looking for revenge!” Bush exclaimed, pushing Scott into the charging beast’s path.
“Eep.”