Don't judge me. Unless you love me. Then judge away.

You know what? Being a blogger is a lot like auditioning for American idol. Only a select few get the grand prize. Most of us, well most of us are the other guys.

You sit at your computer and write what you think is a brilliant entry. Sometimes you know it’s crap, but every so often you think you hit literary gold. Who cares if the subject matter was your clogged toilet? They always tell you, write about what you know. Then your mom and your friends, and all the people who like you, tell you you’re brilliant.

“You had me in tears!”
“You've got a real gift.”
“I’ve never thought to see things from the toilets point of view you dagnab genius!”

Of course your little ego is inflated. You probably lay in bed really feeling like you could be the next Salinger or Fitzgerald. That despite the fact that you're pushing thirty with nothing more then a witty entry about a commode, you will write the next great coming of age novel. There will be book signings. There will be panels you’re invited to sit on. People will read your words. People will be moved by your words. You have a voice!

But really, what more is a blog than karaoke at locals night? Where drunk people cheer you on while you belt out Whitney loud enough to break a bottle of Guinness right in half. They love you. Naturally you take the next step. Naturally.

So when Simon or J Lo or whoever the F is judging that show now insists you rip out your own vocal chords and take a vow of silence you’re genuinely shocked.

“I wasn’t ready. I wrote that while the baby was crying! I was just warming up my prepositions. I got a real good one on tooth decay, let me read that to you!”

Sorry doll, but this isn’t the career path for you. Have you thought about a vocational school? Maybe something in plumbing?

So that’s where I am today. I have some real juicy stuff on how my basement is currently being used as a litter box, but I just can’t bring myself to write it. Too bad, it’s gold.