This blog post is a pity party with a special guest.
A while back, I was doing my vulgar little thing on twitter and I clicked a link on a feed of some guy I barely knew. And isn’t that how most social diseases are spread? I clicked because it promised “The Top 10 Funniest Tweets of January,” curated by a funny twitter-man from a “humor blog” who calls himself ThoughtsFromParis. Total click-bait.
The page I landed on did indeed have 10 pretty damn funny tweets. But I was promised the funniest. And since my standard for funny is irrationally high when I apply it to other people, I felt that I had the right to complain.
Luckily for me there was a comments section to accommodate my wish.
I don’t remember exactly what I wrote—something I instantly thought was clever and un-reproachable. But seconds later I wanted to take it back because it was so unfunny and reproachable. Within a minute, I clicked off the site, disgusted by myself—which is my stasis and my wont.
Some time later an email emailed to me told me that I received a reply to my comment. So of course, I clicked on all of that with a power flex of my clicking muscle.
I read the reply. It reflected disappointment with a side of who-the-hell-are-you?! The commenter was someone named Kate. I was wondering why Kate would take it personally that I didn’t think TFP’s list was all that funny. Then I looked around. And if real life had a soundtrack like they do in the movies, then I would have heard something suspenseful and screechy—like a high tension guitar string scratch. And maybe the camera would have done that weird zoom thing where the subject gets closer and the background pushes back. How the hell do they do that and what’s it called? All of that would have happened because that’s when I noticed that the page I was on did not belong to the guy I followed on twitter. DUN DUN DUUUUUN!
I was at Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine with my morning quiet times. The only blog name longer than ours. A blog I had never heard of. And so I realized that my unfunny comment was even more unfunny because this blogger had NO IDEA who I was. To her, I was a random asshat who just wandered in—like a child walking in on the middle of a movie and asking questions. I was out of my element.
I answered her comment with an actual thoughtful reply and then leaped off her blog, wallowing in contempt for myself, which is my wont.
Then nothing happened for a month.
Then I get an email from Kate—somehow I left a cyber trail of clues that led directly to my secret identity! She was asking me to help her make picks for the next month’s Top 10 Funny Tweets. So this was like walking into a party, insulting all the guests while making direct eye contact with the host, and then being asked to help pass around the appetizers. I was humbled and happy to help. Never mind that the only reason I was being asked to help at all is because I was a total dick.
I learned that she has over 10,000 twitter followers, is a Top Parent Tweeter on Huffington Post, part of a network of blogs where she averages hundreds of views a day, and does it all without using any profanity. In other words, my complete opposite. For comparison, I have 55 twitter followers, get on average 10 views a day on this here blog, and I tend to use the swears.
I couldn’t believe that she was asking me to help her sort the funny from her selects—selects that she narrowed down from the thousands of funny tweets she reads every month. She’s like a saint. Selflessly does all the work and extends a wonderful opportunity to a knob like me. The Patron Saint of Social Media. We need one of those, right? Yeah, I nominate Kate Hall.
I helped her make picks, she gave this here blog a shout out and I braced myself for the crushing onset of fame which never happened. I was grateful nonetheless and resolved myself to accepting the fact that I am a cursed being.
Some time later—just after we met with Jill’s awesome friends in Arizona—I installed a free WordPress widget that tracks the number of visitors and views and referrals—how people got to the site. You know, the kind of app that people install the very day they create a website and not two years later.
It became a game, a contest where I was both the winner and the loser but mostly the loser, to see if I could break my record of 3 views in a day. And I did. I got 4.
And then a miracle. I was visited again by Saint Kate of the Twitters, asking for another set of eyes on another set of some sweet tweets. I was thrilled. Now I could bask in the glow of a social media pro and measure each wonderful click.
She posted another set of Top Ten Tweets (extremely funny ones—which gave me a list of people to follow) and gave me another shout out that resulted in exactly 0 clicks. POP. THE. CHAMPAGNE.
But then, get this, then Saint Kate agrees to post my throw up story as part of her Embarrassing Stories Monday series. Even though my original story was way over the word limit she was looking for. And had swears.
For sure, this was going to be big. The shout-outs were one thing, but this would be my writing delivered to a much larger audience. They were sure to laugh and follow the link back to my site like humor-starved bears going to the dumpster of comedy.
I ran out to a Jeep dealership and bought his and her Wranglers. Then I put a down payment on a mansion. And left a $1000 tip on a $25 TGIFriday bill.*
When the totals came in . . . well . . . I’ll let Kate explain it: “I checked my stats. There have been 133 pageviews of your post. It looks like only three people clicked on your blog. How sucky is that?”
So I had to return the Jeeps, burn down the mansion for the insurance money and rob the waitress.**
For me it was proof of two indisputable facts:
- I should just give it all up.
- I should post about it.
*NONE of that really happened
**All of that happened.***
***No it didn’t