Last Sunday I sat down to watch a barrage of NFL games so epic in duration it should have been illegal. It was an inhuman amount of sporting events that lasted from my first waking moment until about 12 am the next morning. Between urinating into bottles, and the fact that I was sustaining myself on a diet of some form of moss that grows freely on my kitchen walls, it was clear that this wasn’t the healthiest idea. Somewhere in the delirium that is malnutrition, one of the networks I was watching “went back to the studio”. And who was in this studio waiting for me? Some concussed moron who I didn’t recognize…and my old friend Ray Lewis.
There’s no escaping this guy. Unless he murders you outside of his limo, there is no end to how many times you will be subjected to this idiot. And trust me, listening to him makes you wish someone would stab you in the stomach and leave you for dead. But as I pissed into an empty pasta sauce jar, and listened to him describe the 49er’s keys to victory (his response: “well let me tell you what we did on the Ravens…”) I realized that this man has not only gotten second and third chances, but has been afforded more opportunities than most people who HAVEN’T murdered someone. That’s the society we live in. People on the straight and narrow struggle their entire lives to get by, while this guy commits a heinous crime and not only gets the chance to come back to football, but then gets an ESPN gig after! I was irate. “I should write about this,” I thought. But then I got that empty feeling in my stomach. It was a feeling I had become very familiar with. For this was not the first time I had witnessed some form of stupidity and concluded that I should write about it. In fact, this had occurred with some frequency over the past couple of months. But I had screwed up the BL so royally that for the longest time I thought there was no coming back. I had taken something I loved, and made it everything that I had promised it would never be. I had bowed to peer pressure, and resorted to a level of conformity that made me doubt my own personal constitution. In a desperate attempt to get a larger readership and finally get more writers, I changed the Barnyard Lampoon to Doozy Magazine.
BL Reader: What does Doozy mean?
It’s Greek for “shitty title”. What was I thinking? Let me give you a few bullet points:
-In addition to writing weird comedy articles of little value, I also consider myself an artist. I paint, draw, spray paint walls, and do lots of weird things. With this lifestyle you consume a lot of art, whether that’s through galleries, magazines, or openings. At one point I thought, “Hm, I like art. I like writing. I should write about art!” This is a great idea on paper, but as I soon discovered, it was a lot harder making this idea a reality.
-Once I decided to write about art, I realized that there was no logical place for these columns on the BL. The BL, as everyone knows, is too cluttered with posts about same sex monkey marriage, and fake reviews of movies that will never come out (like Tom Cruise). So I told myself, perhaps in a drunken haze, that I should change the format of the site. I needed a new name.
-Coming up with such a shitty name took a lot longer than I am willing to admit. How I settled on it, I’m still not really sure. I think a lot of it had to do with the fact that it wasn’t taken. But with the name chosen, I was off and running!
-Running…to absolutely nowhere. I knew immediately that I had made a mistake. And recognizing this, I had a hard time writing for the site. Who cares what I REALLY thought about a serious movie? Who cares what I thought about an art opening? It was all boring. And as Christopher Hitchens once said, “the greatest offense is to be boring”.
I had been so willing to change for bullshit reasons, that I lost sight of what the entire thing meant. This website is and always will be a stupid site, to say stupid things and piss off a few people in the process. If people want to write for it in the future, fantastic. But I’ve decided that if I never get another writer, I won’t care.
This entire failure has reminded me that it’s important to not get too big for my britches. I won’t make this mistake again. If I ever want to become a snobby, stuck up elitist and write about art and all that other nonsense, I’ll do it for someone else. In fact, I actually have another blog intended for housing such mundane articles. As for the Barnyard Lampoon…it’s back to business as usual. On with the show!
I hope you can forgive me,