A Train Wreck, or Something Like It.

Internet rubbernecking.

I'm guilty of it.

You might be too.

Just like real life, driving along the highway, traffic slows to a crawl, and you find yourself decrying those nosy, nosy fuckers 18 cars in front of you who insist on oogling the vehicular carnage as they pass. Then comes your turn to creep by, and instead of maintaining a constant speed out of courtesy for the bazillion drivers behind you, you do it. Right foot shifts from gas to brake-tap, tap, tap- eyes drift to the left (or right), and the rest of your face follows slowly. Before you realize the crime you've committed, you become one of those nosy, nosy fuckers oogling the vehicular carnage.

Same rules apply to the internet, and all this blog lurking of which we are so heinously guilty. Yes, yes you too, because if you're reading this, and haven't made known your presence, than you too my friend, are a lurker.

But I digress.

What started as a simple plea for pray has become this clusterfuck of unadulterated adoration, bordering on celebrity for the internet's favorite Jesus-Loving, organic-eating, sometimes-cloth-diapering mommy blogger. You know who I'm talking about. And I'm guilty of it too, don't get me wrong.

I just wanna know how it happened. I mean, I'm sucked in same as you, and I only have a furbaby. Recipes - meh, good but could be found almost anywhere. Photography lessons - again, easily accessible on the web. Her cute kids with their ridiculous nicknames - okay, I'll give you that. You can ONLY find adorable children with fast food internet names over there.

She's preachy, and commercial. She's still funky, fresh, and lets face it, really fucking cool - most of the time. But her Old testament devotion to her husband, her nauseating use of alliteration, advert-saturated homepage, and utter insistence of use of those Godforsaken nicknames drive me up a wall, as I'm sure it does you.

Yet, I get her blog updates everyday. I read them everyday. I'm addicted, and I can't help myself.

So I ask, what's the appeal? Why do we keep going back for more? What is with this voyeuristic tendency, Blogshpere?

Don't all speak up at once now.

Heroic Standards of American Citizens

Did you see those pictures of Michael Phelps hittin' a bong at a party?



So did I.



Do you think they warrant the intense media circus that has befallen them?



Neither do I.



Dude's what? Twenty-four, -ish, thereabouts?


Find me one red blooded American male in his mid twenties who has not hit a bong. Go on, do it. I'm not saying you can't; I'm saying it will be really effing difficult.

If this guy, dear Mr. Phelps, were not the half-man, half-fish swimming freak of awesomeness that he is, he'd be finishing his senior-ish year in college, where he'd probably shared plenty of face time with those pretty glass tubes.

And nobody would give a shit, except maybe his mother. That's assuming, of course, that she found the photos on someone's Facebook.

Unfortunately for Mr. Phelps, he is in fact a half-fish freak of awesomeness who crushes records, competitors, and walnuts with his delicious washboard abs (and assorted other, equally delicious body parts), and isn't allowed to participate in anything but the most vanilla of recreational activities in his free time. You know, the time he has all to himself?

Which begs the question: WTF?!