I’ve waited 27 days to write this

Today I felt inspired to do this:

You might be thinking “What, I did not subscribe to a crafting blog. What the eff is this?”

Don’t worry, this is NOT a crafting blog, nor will it ever be. So let me explain. Bit of background info: I am renting a bedroom in a sketchy, messy 3 bedroom house that’s occupied by a family. Why? I moved to Colorado and needed to lock down a random sublet so that I’d have a place to live while going on job interviews and just trying to make my way out here. I found this place on Craigslist, was stressed out and sick of searching for apartments and jobs, and mailed them a check, sight unseen.

I knew it wasn’t going to be ideal, but I didn’t know it would be like this.

Laundry room:

I think they took the concept of a “laundry room” literally, because there are clothes EVERYWHERE. I’m assuming they’re still like that, because I haven’t been down there since my first time doing laundry. I’d be okay with wading through other people’s dirty clothes, but it also smells like cat pee and, on top of that, a few days ago there was a sewage leak. Once a personal preference, now a safety hazard. I’m out of clean underwear.

Living room: 

Mostly uninhabitable, 2 points for irony! The one time I sat on the couch was the last time I sat on the couch, frankly because I’m afraid of whatever is lurking in the cushions that’s feeding off Cheetos from 2008.

Parents:

I met the mother, Buffy, when she was talking on a Nokia cell phone as she walked through the front door. She hung up and told her husband:

“We can’t use this cell phone, they can track it. We need to get another cell phone.”

Then she turned to me and explained that Hunter’s father was trying to find out where his son was because they just got custody of him (red flag #1). Then she introduced herself to me. Best first impression ever!

(Later, the mother told me that she’s a germaphobe. Several times, actually. Please refer to the previous pictures of the house, and let me know if you find this amusing too.)

Kids:

This is the 2 year-old girl who follows me around everywhere. She’s cute but she often stinks because her parents don’t bother changing her diaper or her clothes.

This picture represents the 6 year-old BONUS child named Hunter. I don’t have a picture of him because I don’t like him, so this picture of a redhead should suffice. I say “bonus” child because the day I moved in, the father sat me down in the foyer (nearly gave me a heart attack — who “sits” their tenants down upon arrival?) and told me that, surprise, Hunter would be living with the family. I was informed that Hunter is the wife’s child from an abusive relationship that she “just got out of.” ..Red flag #2.

“The Wall”

Every wall in the living room is known as “The Wall,” which is a more spacious form of “The Corner.” As in “Hunter!??? GET ON THE WALL!” Said child stomps over to The Wall, faces it, and the parents continue watching TV. Child turns and watches the TV. Child stands there for 45 minutes, because he spoke while on The Wall and thus extended his initial “minute” on the wall by 44 minutes. Actually, even a well-behaved “minute” can last 20 minutes — I’ve seen it a couple times.

This is not a recommended form of parenting.

Sooooooo how does the Karma’s a Bitch mason jar fit into all this?

Well, for the past four or five days, the family’s been gone.

“I found out that they’re not coming back,” said the shirtless/hairy man that also rents a room in the house (another surprise). He was on his way to the bathroom holding a shower caddy. One perk of living with creepy older men is that you get to see them on their way to shower or use the bathroom, and then get visualizations of things to come. Ugh.

“What? Wait.. what? I thought they owned the house?” I was surprised, but also kind of amused at the same time. Nothing really shocked me at this point in the game.

“No, I guess they rent it.” Aha.. Renters were renting to renters. Quite clever of them. “Yea, Buffy’s sister came by earlier this morning when you were gone, and she said that they weren’t coming back, and she asked me if I wanted to keep the cats.”

The Cats:

I wasn’t too surprised that they had skipped out on their own rent, left the place a complete mess, and left most of their belongings, but I was surprised that they were completely fine with abandoning two cats to basically die of starvation. Cool.

On one hand, their leaving might be an upgrade because the cats were neglected in the first place. My second week here, I noticed that their water bowl was empty and I filled it up. The black little guy ran right over and drank like he just stumbled across an Oasis on the Oregon Trail. I’ve been feeding them ever since. The family also has a puppy, who they apparently decided was worthy of bringing along. He spent most of his time on a chain in the dirt backyard or locked in the shed overnight.

I know this is a humor blog, and I was trying to keep a good sense of humor in a situation that I couldn’t control, but stuff like this just makes me hate humanity. Sure, there are some decent people out there, but there are way more pieces of sh*t who are completely irresponsible and assume that their actions don’t have consequences. Or worse, they know exactly what they’re doing but they don’t care. I feel like the past couple of years I keep meeting more of these people.

So.. telling myself “karma is a bitch” is sometimes the only thing that settles me down. I don’t believe in any god so I’m not capable of thinking that someday they’ll meet their maker in a firey pit of misery. I guess I believe that “you get what you give” and “what goes around comes around.” Actions have reactions. When you feed your 2 year old a steady diet of soda, chips, fried chicken, and pizza, she’s probably going to resent you when she hits 13 and gets picked on for being overweight. She’ll hate you even more when she realizes there’s no money for college because you skipped out on your rent 800 times. And in some mysterious way, when she runs away at 17, that’s karma coming back at you for when you decided to abandon two cats and leave them to starve and die. Karma’s a bitch.

The worst parts of my childhood.

Needless to say, we all quit soccer.

When I got in trouble for mooning someone at a rest stop. Picture this. You’re seven. You’re sitting in a station wagon, at a rest stop, in the middle of June with your two older sisters and one older brother who’s probably sexually active at this point, and thus far too old to be going on seventeen-hour road trips to Disney World.

Our parents just went into the rest stop probably to buy a map, or maybe my Dad was smoking one of his Merit’s, who knows. My Mom was probably perusing the casino brochures outside of McDonald’s. Anyway, they were in there for like 5 whole minutes. That’s a really long time to leave four kids alone in a station wagon in the middle of summer, especially since we’d all finished listening to every NKOTB tape on our Walkman’s.

So my brother dared me to moon the guy next to us. I pulled down my elastic-waist shorts and planted my hauntingly white 7 year-old ass, complete with a birthmark, against the window for a good 2 seconds. I remember exactly what the guy looked like, he had a curly mullet and a wife; they were driving a sensible car, probably a Volvo. It was AWESOME!

But the bastard waited for my parents to get back to the car, and he told on me. And I got in trouble. Shame. Seriously, what would you have done in that situation? It was a dare. I had a moral obligation to do it, and plus, it was fun. I don’t regret it, only that I got caught. Let it be known — if a child ever moons you at a rest stop, PLEASE don’t tell on him. Just let him/her enjoy that blissful 2 seconds of uninhibited taunting.

The last 1/4 of the Slush Puppie. Being the youngest, cutest of my three older sisters and brother, I may or may not have been the most convincing of the group to get all of us something that we collectively wanted real bad. And being a bunch of sweaty kids in a giant, old station wagon  in the summertime, stopping at a gas station meant one thing and one thing only: Slush Puppies.

One way or another, we scored them. We’d suck them down, ignoring the splitting sensation erupting behind our eye sockets, savoring the smooth, round ice pellets swimming in blissful, sweet, blue chemical liquid, letting it slide down our throats into our high fructose corn syrup -heaving bellies. We’d slurp and — so abruptly, without warning — nothing. Cruel, really. We’d tear the plastic top off the cup and peer inside. ALL ICE. NO MORE BLUE. WTF, Slush Puppie? You’ve been around like 47 years, and you still haven’t figured out a way to make the blue shit last through the end of the cup.

Krissy (left) eventually forgave me for hitting her with a bat. Judging by my face I’m still a little guilty.

When I hit my best friend with a bat and got in trouble for it. I grew up as a self-proclaimed, and universally described, “tomboy.” I had a blond bowl-cut and sometimes pretended to be a boy named “Tommy” – more on that later. Years later, my mom told me she raised me as a tomboy because it was cheaper than buying lots of pretty clothes.

When I was about 6 years old, I was playing in the street with my two best friends, Krissy Grossimon and Michael Salvaggio. We were way into T-ball at that time. So I was carrying around one of those foam red bats with my last name written in angry magic marker on it in huge letters, “McCORMICK.” I was also “scooting” around on a skateboard, because I was 6 and I didn’t care if people thought I looked like an idiot.

We were in the middle of the street, in an intersection, which probably wasn’t very safe. Anyway, Krissy said something I didn’t like, and I nailed her with the bat. It wasn’t really that hard, I don’t think, and let me remind you that the bat was covered in foam. Needless to say, I hit a 6 year old with a bat and I thought it was funny. She cried. And told on me, and I got in trouble with my Mom. And realized you shouldn’t hit your best friends with bats, because it’s not funny. Or, it’s not funny to the other person.

When my grandmother convinced my parents that “Chores” were a good idea. My grandmother, Nan, babysat us one snowy weekend when I was 7. (Apparently all the worst parts of my childhood happened around age 7… I’ll bring that up to my therapist later.) All of us kids were playing outside in the snow, and my brother and sisters decided to climb on top of our pop-up camper. Come on, how is that NOT fun? I remember standing there and thinking it was bad but not really caring too much about it.

Later that night, my parents came home and  my Dad found out there was a dent in the roof, due to us kids climbing on it. He was furious. I got in trouble because “You didn’t say anything, so you’re in trouble too” or something to that effect. Apologies that my sense of judgment wasn’t fully formed at the age of 7, Dad. Geez.

What are those, Nan, Christmas cookies laced with poison? Just kidding, love you!

That night, we ate dinner with my grandmother at our big, oval dinner table.

“These kids are getting away with MURDAH,” said Nan. That changed everything.

I’ll never forget the way she said that, because I remember feeling extremely guilty for whatever my 7 year-old self had done that could be equated with slitting someone’s throat and throwing them down a well. I also remember these exact words because my family didn’t really have a heavy Boston accent like she did — well we did, but I think most of us grew out of it once we realized that it’s generally unattractive.

Nan left that night, and the next week my Mom posted a schedule of weekly chores on the wall, which would forever be resented. For years, YEARS I tell you, we would all stay inside after dinner sweeping floors, scrubbing chairs, vacuuming the rug under the dinner table, doing SLAVE labor while our friends would play Four Square outside without us. Even when my friends came over, they’d have to wait in the living room and watch TV while I toiled away. It was torture, I tell you. All because of a visit from my grandmother.

So there you have it, the four worst parts of my childhood.

My Mom requested that I not upload this family picture because of her 80s perm. Challenge accepted.

I have no problem with Rich Kids of Instagram

Rich Kids of Instagram. I found out about this Tumblr on my Facebook newsfeed the other day, posted by one person who didn’t have anything to say about it, and another who commented with “Class warfare.. it’s real.”

Barf.

So what’s the media saying about the Rich Kids of Instagram?

I think there was a shortage of fear-mongering social media news stories this week, so TODAY Moms had to spin this Tumblr blog into a public service announcement for “keeping kids safe on the Internet.” Just to add to the stack of 5,345,320,220 other articles that have been written about it since the dawn of AOL under 13 chat rooms.

The Atlantic nailed it by saying that we’re ALL narcissistic assholes on social media, so please, stop pointing fingers at the trust fund kids. They just want to have fun. And post high exposure pictures about it.

CNN quoted this guy as being representative of “disgust and anger”:

Pretty sad how those Rich Kids of Instagram will never know the value of a hard days OH MY GOD I HATE THEM SO MUCH

— Josh Hara (@yoyoha) August 17, 2012

when I actually see it as a socially acceptable statement interrupted by an abrupt admission of envy. A+ for honesty!

People, people. We all saw the movie Blank Check in the 90s. Or at least I’m going to assume you did.

This was a movie about an 11 year-old kid who got a blank check in the mail from his senile grandma, told his parents, and they told him to write in $5 or something lame like that. …..Parents. Shortly after, the kid somehow comes upon another blank check and this time around has learned that factoring parents into the equation = no fun. So he fills in “$1,000,000,” takes it to the bank, and cashes it. Then he buys a mansion and fills it up with 1,000 gigantic inflatable pool toys and race cars and such. He swims in cash; that’s all I remember about the movie, other than that he probably got caught in the end and gave back all the money.

And you LOVED that movie as a kid, didn’t you? Don’t deny it.

When that skinny 11 year old kid told his butler to get him another chocolate milk from the seat of his Star Trek inflatable captain’s chair in his in-ground pool, you were dying inside. Because you knew you’d be going to sleep tonight in your ordinary middle-class bunk bed and not a gold-plated race car. You hated your parents for not having offshore accounts and make up for their 80-hour workweeks by buying you tons of awesome shit.

You might hate to admit it, but you haven’t changed much since then. Sure, you might be “the 99%”, Democrat-registered, and owner of a minivan in a small suburb south of the city, but let’s get serious. If a couple million dollars suddenly appeared on your doorstep, you’d have no problem Tweeting about it. Same reason you expect a bonus each year in your paycheck, along with a raise. Everyone’s pursuing their own American Dream, give or take a few zero’s. Just sayin.

Being Paul Giamatti

Due to being unemployed, I’ve been sleeping in and experiencing really strange dreams. They’re the type of dreams that, crusty-eyed and trying to stagger past the small diapered child who follows me around — I’m renting a room from a family that has 3 kids — its exactly what you imagine it to be — I silently pat myself on the back for being capable of such weird yet coherent dreams.

In my latest dream, Paul Giamatti is starring in a movie in which he’s cunning and quick enough to escape the clutches of two faceless cops. I say “movie” because I was somehow aware during the dream that I was inside of a movie, and after the last scene ended, my brain told me to wake up.

About halfway through the movie, I became Paul Giamatti. In one “scene” I shimmied on my stomach through a small, long wooden area. I looked down and saw, through the slats, that my two nemeses were also sliding on their stomachs below me, trying to catch up. There were meaningful glances and sweating.

We emerged all at the same time. I ran to a car and the next scene was all about driving around a parking lot trying to escape bullets and trying to not hit anyone in my way. I hit a lot of cars and knocked a lot of stuff over, but knew the audience would be all “Ohhhh, no he didn’t! Ahhh but I guess it’s okay, he needs to escape for the greater good.” I think I overestimate the emotions of my audience. Generally when I watch a high-intensity scene in an action movie, I end up thinking “ooh, who’s going to fix that bridge?” or “that was a lot of shrapnel, I hope that the resulting wounds of passerby do not cause someone to need to cross the bridge to get to the hospital, because they will likely bleed to death or drown trying to cross that river.”

But I got caught. The two cops took me to the top of a grassy hill, where my entire extended family sat on picnic tables underneath a patio tent, eating peanut butter sandwiches. The cop that was escorting me opened the flap of the tent, and then somehow I escaped. Then I became Director again, and watched as Paul Giamatti got into a car, waved, and drove away on the dusty road. Then I woke up.

Looking back, it looks like my dream involved:

• Paul Giamatti
• parking lot
• police
• peanut butter
• patio
• picnic table

I’m not quite sure what that signifies. Maybe I should just stop watching Lost before going to sleep.

Dear Mom, I’m doing just fine in Colorado without a gun

“You hear what happened in Colorado, at that movie theater?” The carpenter working on my Mom’s house stood there looking at me and dangling his paint-smattered hammer.

I said I did, then internally questioned whether I looked like the type of person to ignore national news in favor of reading People Magazine. Probably my hair. Anyway, we were standing in the middle of the living room with my Mom. She had just told the carpenter that I was leaving today, making the move from Boston to Colorado for a change of scenery that I’ve thought about making for a long time.

This is the state of Massachusetts, or as I like to call it “the state that beckons Europe to come get in the van to play with its puppy”

“Let me tell you,” he started, planting his feet apart on the paper-covered wood floor. “Those shootings never would have happened if there were tighter gun laws in this country. It’s ridiculous! Any Joe can go down to Walmart and pick himself up a [insert gun name here — frankly I don’t remember what type of gun he was referring to but I remember using Context Clues to understand that he was talking about a gun].”

I could see that he wanted me to agree with him, because that’s what people on vague/poorly researched political tangents want you to do.

Instead I decided to say what I was thinking.

“I don’t think gun laws would have stopped him, I think he’s just crazy. If he didn’t have guns he probably would have found out some other way to kill a bunch of people.”

The guy had that glassy-eyed, far-off, ‘the-government-is-screwing-us-those-sons-of-bitches’ look that I’ve grown accustomed to as a child of a giant, Irish, middle class family. I knew that face well, and there was no way to reason with it.

Later, I said goodbye to my hair elastic-obsessed cat Ponyo and filled up my water bottle in the kitchen sink. My Mom and I hugged and walked out the door, said a 20-minute goodbye in which she scheduled me to come back for New Year’s, then I had to run inside to get a banana I had left on the kitchen counter.

I bumped into the carpenter in the kitchen. “You know what you need to do?” he said. “Buy a gun.”

I laughed. Then straightened my face because he was serious. “Are you serious? Why?”

“Colorado isn’t like it is here. You go hiking, there are mountain lions and black bears everywhere in those mountains. You need to protect yourself. I’m telling you, buy a gun. And you never know what type of situation you might get into out there when you’re all alone and female.”

I said I’d think about it, and silently appreciated his flexibility concerning gun laws, which apparently should be adapted to different situations.

Looking back, I now realize that the carpenter had painted my Mom a beautiful picture of me being ripped to shreds by wolverines and velociraptors after I innocently decided to hike up a mountain without a gun. Or getting beaten up in a dark alley somewhere, gun-less, and crying out “WHY DIDN’T I LISTEN TO HIMMMM!”

Just to let you know, Mom, the most intimidating animal I’ve seen so far out here while hiking has been a chipmunk with no concept of personal space. At one point he did try to bite my toe, but I came down the mountain unscathed. And yesterday, something bit my right ankle. I’ll admit, after I got bitten I spent the next half hour waiting for the spider/rattlesnake’s poison to travel up to my heart and paralyze me. But it ended up being a red ant bite (so someone told me). You can tell the carpenter that I’m doing just fine without a gun.

Sometimes, judging can come in handy

I overheard a pack of girls talking behind me today.

“He goes, ‘I will pay you five thousand dollars to spend the night with me.’ and she was like ‘Ew, no, you’re the ShamWow guy.’ “

This happened on my way down to the beach at Horsetooth Reservoir outside of Fort Collins, Colorado, which is about 20 minutes from where I now live as of 4 days ago. ..More on that later.

It got me thinking about this ShamWow guy. I’m sure you know who he is; the guy seems to have a neck-craning tendency along with just having a troublesome face in general, plus those eyebrows. I’m guessing he was probably the kid who sat in the middle of his seventh grade class drawing unicorns while all of the cool kids sat in the back flinging spitty pieces of paper at the back of his neck, which actually might explain the craned neck tendency.

Anyway, I thought to myself, “It’s really no surprise that Mr. ShamWow tried to bribe a 20-something girl from Colorado into having sex with him. He kind of looks like a d*ck, and probably has a lot of free time on his hands outside of filming ShamWow commercials in which to bribe young girls and snort cocaine.”

At that moment, I learned something about myself: I am a seriously judgmental motherf*cker. I’m not sure exactly when I became like this, but it may have started the day that I got punched by a drunk homeless guy while I was waiting for the bus at a train station. We had been “talking” about his radio (he had been sputtering on about “FM” and “radio”) and I got tired of saying “What? I can’t really understand you” when I guess he got mad and decided to take it out on my face. I stood up and yelled “WHY DID YOU DO THAT,” ran inside and started crying like a baby… he staggered across the highway towards the Motel 6 while I sat in the back of the police car, still crying.

After that, I no longer bought candy bars for smelly people standing outside of 7-11’s, or made eye contact with kids my age sitting on a sidewalk with a dog and a cardboard sign. Basically, drunken radio-man made me assume that all homeless people were threats that should be avoided.

Due to being brainwashed by Catholic high school, it’s always been in the back of my mind that judging people is BAD. It’s just something that stuck around because maybe I agreed with it as a moral thing rather than a religious teaching. (Please note that I’ve been an atheist since about 10th grade).

But sometimes judging can come in handy. Like when you want to determine whether someone is white trash, you can use these visual cues:

I’ve been known to attend white trash parties

White Trash Checklist

Clothing: Bud Light/Coors Light swag, sleeveless tee-shirt, denim carpenter shorts positioned low on the hips, bikini top + cutoffs when 20+ miles outside of swimming areas

Accessories: Wallet chain, cigarette behind ear, hunting hat, Sketchers sneakers, Busch Light can, bicep tattoo or tramp stamp, belly button piercing + overweight, “sport” sunglasses

Activities: Feeding soda to children, listening to Creed, buying cigarello’s at Tedeschi’s, referring to a cigarette as a “butt”, hanging out at Wendy’s

Or if you want to know whether someone will make a good boyfriend or girlfriend:

Problematic Significant Other Checklist

Activities: Recycles stuffed animals from past relationships for new relationships, works part-time, fights with parent(s) in front of you, lives with parents

(Unfortunately, I formed these assumptions AFTER breaking up with the guy that helped me form them.. so they came a bit too late. But they’re definitely useful for the future.)

So… I don’t feel so bad about being judgmental anymore. After reflecting, most of my judgments are actually keeping me safer by helping me avoid punches in the face, white trash, and unappealing boyfriends. And that’s just fine with me.

Ode to Our Friendly Car Vandal

That hooded sweatshirt really becomes you.

Car Vandal, you are an integral part of Boston culture. I do not care to imagine what our humble city would be like without you. Without you, our crime headlines would be nothing more than reports of bank robberies and suspicious activity in Lynn.

Without you, dear Car Vandal, what would we do in our homes between the hours of 4 and 8pm, when most car vandalisms occur? Piece of mind is highly overrated, and also, for losers. We need fear to keep us alive.

And look, some of my favorite Tweets from @Boston_Police are about you!

And who even WANTS to be on the list of Top 10 Safest Cities? More like ‘Top 10 Lamest Cities.’ No city has ever gained notoriety by being deemed “safe.” “Safe” cities don’t become the backdrop of major biopics about the rise of a game-changing white rapper, OR get featured in Chrysler Superbowl ads. Safety is for losers.

Lose one car vandal, lose onself, lose all.

"Is it 4-8pm yet?"

Baby Beards – The Solution to Juvenile Contentment

Does this look like the face of a child in your life? 

If your answer is yes, you’re only 1 of thousands of adults suffering from the noxious effects of juvenile contentment.

When children are happy, they radiate positive energy that can be detrimental, even fatal, to nearby parents, neighbors, teachers, and others. Childhood happiness can distract adults from tasks such as:

• Paying bills
• Writing out detailed grocery lists
• Maintaining a furrowed brow
• Complaining about the price of oil
• Enforcing punishment such as groundings or no-TV

Thankfully, there is a solution to this problem that will literally wipe the smile off any child’s face. Introducing, the Baby Beard™

The Baby Beard™ is designed to mask and cover up the annoying aesthetic effects of juvenile contentment on a child. That is to say, it virtually erases all

• Smiles
• Grins
• Satisfaction with the moment

and as a bonus, will even

• conceal underdeveloped teeth and unsightly braces

How does the Baby Beard™ work?

The Baby Beard™ is constructed of crocheted yarn, and attaches to the face via loops for the child’s ears, or buttons which can be simply connected to an accompanying crocheted hat, as seen in the photo above. In recent research, the Baby Beard has been effective in both concealing the smiles, grins, and other outward signs of happiness. It has even had the effect of levelling a child’s jubilant mood to a more acceptable mood of sourness or mere neutrality. The Baby Beard is also a great natural solution for adults who dislike children, as it transforms an otherwise youthful face into the face of  a man aged 52.

Thanks for reading about my newest sponsor, and don’t forget to visit the Official Baby Beard store, where you can also find Beards 4 Babes, and Hipster Hair! Stay tuned for an upcoming installment about my other newest sponsor, Bump-It: The ORIGINAL Hair-Volumizing Insert.

Brought to you by Samantha McCormick.

This blog is sponsored by Bump-It, the ORIGINAL hair-volumizing insert, and the Baby Beard™

How you, too, can be an Online Content Writer

A sarcastic and tongue-in-cheek look at the world of online content writing.

Yes, THIS MEANS YOU!

Do you have a computer? Are you capable of forming sentences? Congratulations, you are now steps away from being an Online Content Writer! If you like what you see on sensational websites like The Huffington Post, Fox News, CopyBlogger, and the Boston Herald, here’s how you, too, can become an online content writer JUST LIKE THEM!

Part I: How to make it look like you know what you’re talking about

Formatting is the key to making it look like you know what you’re talking about. The trick is to liberally use bullet points and bold, numbered lists, italics, and underline. Write anything in this paragraph. No one is going to read it, because it’s too long, and there are bullet points in bold below that are shorter and can be read quicker. If there is a particular topic in mind that you would like to highlight such as daisy dukes are back in fashion but this time for men, you can bold it, and the eye will probably travel straight to that phrase, so really, the only word that matters in this paragraph is that phrase, and maybe the last sentence of this paragraph. Daisy dukes are back in fashion because

• The weather is getting warmer
• Men’s shorts are just too longto keep them cool
• All of the celebrities are wearing them!

Youre MINUTES away from churning out pure gold like this

Part II: Copying and paraphrasing your content

Welcome to the second part of your article. This is your chance to truly shine as an online content writer. Prior to this moment, you had listed bullet points of your opinions. Here is the part where you support those opinions with rigorous, original research. Your job is to paraphrase that rigorous, original research, as seen below (and remember the golden rule of Online Content Writing — NEVER CREDIT THE SOURCE! Because you paraphrased it, the content is, naturally, YOUR MATERIAL.)

This summer, daisy dukes are the hottest trend on the Paris and Milan runways – but this time around, MEN are wearing them. Celebrities seen wearing these hot cutoffs include: Charlie Sheen, Justin Bieber, Justin Timberlake, and even Will Ferrell! You can buy the newest daisy dukes at Express for Men, H&M, and Target. (Or you can fashion your very own pair of daisy dukes by cutting the pants off of a pair of faded jeans.) With the way this trend has caught fire in Hollywood, it’s safe to say that daisy dukes are here to stay.

Preschoolers: The little-known eHow audience

…Or maybe you just don’t know what to write. If that’s the case, simply think of what people want, or problems they need to solve.  Don’t worry if you don’t know how to do these things, or how to solve their problems; you can always copy the things other people have written and paraphrase it without giving credit. Remember: YOU ARE THE EXPERT! How to find content that you can copy and paraphrase:

1. Google
2. eHow
3. Wikipedia
4. News articles
5. Personal web pages written by actual experts
6. Blogs
7. Social media (Twitter, Facebook, etc.)
8. Other ways!!!

Part III: Mastering the art of the title

You have now arrived at the single, most important part of being an online content writer (other than not crediting your sources, of course!). If it doesn’t have a good title, no one is going to read it. That means no one is going to click on the Adsense ads embedded in your page or fill out your affiliate form for Hotels Combined.

Fear, check. Size 700 font, check. Blood-like font color, check. Dramatic picture, check. SUCCESS!!

In their titles, the masters of online content use: fear, accusation, suspense, and the old standby of “10 ways to…” So you’re writing about The Adverse Effects of Watching Television in Juveniles. (This is actually the title of a Popular Science article — which you are paraphrasing.) By using the techniques I mentioned, here are some great ways to spin that crusty old title into something that PUNCHES YOUR AUDIENCE IN THE FACE:

• Fear: “Why Your Child Could Perish in 5 Years”
• Accusation: “How You’re Killing Your Children”
• Suspense: “The Household Object That is Slowly Murdering Each and Every One of your Children”
• 10 Ways: “10 Ways your Child Could Die in your Own Home”

By now, you should feel very comfortable with using bulletpoints and bold, copying content and paraphrasing it, and writing effective titles. Make sure to summarize your entire article here at the bottom to make it easy for people who do not have the time to read your entire article. You are now officially an online writing expert – set up a Twitter account, Facebook page, write your new professional title in your email signature and LinkedIn profile, and get ready to share that content!

Special thanks to the thousands of online content writers, bloggers, Moms Who Work from Home, Online Marketing Gurus and various Web Marketing Affiliates who were the inspiration for this article. Shout-0ut to The Content Farm, another source of mockery of online content.

It’s about to get all cat lady up in here

Thanks to this blog, a photo of a mutual cat friend of mine has made it to the elite Facebook page The Tiniest Tiger; third in popularity only to  Adults Shorter than Danny Devito and OKCupid Red Heads. I’m really proud to be responsible for this huge feline accomplishment. Special thanks to Michael Bench who chose that photo over about 400 other photos of cats.

In the spirit of the moment, I’d like to share with you a collection of cat photos taken over May to August 2008, in Lake Powell, Arizona, when my cousin Jenn Berry and I tore up the Southwest and “worked” as watersports instructors. The kittens in the following photos are named Blackout and Beaver, siblings to Optimus Prime, Megatron, and other Transformers autobots and decepticons. So put your Tigger sweatshirt and elastic waistband jeans on because it’s about to get all cat lady up in here.

Wow, way to be discreet with the feminine products.

Ooh, caught you looking at porn.

Swimming lessons!

Sure, that’s normal.

Thanks for watching.