ad-libby.

Dear People Who Email Me Requesting That I Write an Entry About Products For Their Sake:

Get Your Own Blog.  Write your own pushily-rad posts about products people (possibly) want (desperately) (but you'll have an easier time discovering that if you attempt it yourself instead of asking me to do it for you).  Stop trying to dry-hump my bloggal crotch without bothering to take me to dinner (of course, you're smart to not try and take me to dinner, since I wouldn't go.  Unless it was Somewhere Really Fancy, in which case I probably would go.  Sigh.  Even my fingers betray me when it comes to fine dining/prostituting myself for fine dining).

ANYWAY, as you're obviously planning to not invite me to French Laundry at any near point in the future,:  Do you see ads here?  Do you?  Any ads?  Any at all?

ANY?  AT ALL?

No.  I'm serious.  I can't fucking fathom why people who represent companies who would like to work through bloggers to sell their shit would ask me to do it.  No, no, there are no flashy thingies on my sidebar.  I DO have a link to the site my friends Cristina and Janet built, The Green Mom Review, and of course I link to MOMocrats (even if my time there in the last year has been sort of more as a phantom-presence than otherwise), and there's a link to my dusty group-sex, er, group blog, Did You Buy That New?, and that I don't recommend you visit unless you enjoy choking on a back-log of dust animals larger than my neighbor's ancient greyhound.  But those links aren't ads.  They're just friends, and/or me.  (I may or may not be suggesting that I'm friends with myself in this scenario.  I mean, I *am* friends with myself, because that's what self-therapizing is all about, being friends with oneself, liking oneself, hell, loving oneself, and self-snuggles, and self-absorption, and self-admiration, and jesus but I'm filthy-rad and want to shut out the world and stare at my reflection for eternity and WHO AM I FUCKING KIDDING, I WOULD BREAK A BITCH WHO TRIED TO MAKE ME SERIOUSLY STATE THAT I CAN BE IN A ROOM WITH MYSELF AND NOT START A FIGHT.  WITH MYSELF.)

Don't mind me.  I'm crazy, 's all.

Anyhoo, please stop emailing me.  You see, I read your emails, and I feel bad for you.  I feel bad for your apparent inability to notice that this joint is, for better or worse (although how it could be worse is beyond me), pale and bland and sans blinky, flashy attention-getting shit-for-sale.

(Except for my ten-year-old rhinestone-encrusted pasties.  Since, you know, they were made cheaply and of course they're all cracked and worn and shit, and OH GOOD GOD I DON'T OWN PASTIES.)

(Although I wish I did.  I would've liked to have learned how to spin 'em 'til they resembled old-fashioned sparklers.  STRIPPERY REINVENTION OF FOURTH OF JULY, BITCHES!!  Which is kind of how it already is.  So, hello, I'm redundant.)

I'm not trying to be a slag, PR folks, so much as I'm just asking you to stop asking me to give up my crotchal grinds for free, because even if you were to ask how much a pony-ride is, you couldn't afford it.  I HATE writing under duress, and I also suck at it, so if I did it, I'd be miserable and trying desperately to not produce doo-doo which would make me turn to drink, and then I'd be in a blind, drunken chaotic whirl for days on end and all of that costs A LOT OF MONEY.  Booze:  it's not handed out compliments of the store it's sold in.  (Also, all of the things I steal and wreck when I'm on a bender.  Those things are also not handed out compliments of the zoo/hotel/police station/swingers club/elementary school wherein I choose to rampage whilst stewed.)  Your free product provided for my reviewing pleasure would not go far in bailing my old-fashioned crazy ass outta the clink.  I need SCRILLA for that, yo.  Scrilla you ain't got to give.  Or don't wanna give.  Not without a struggle.  One I'm disinterested in.

I'm sure your shit is A-numeral-uno RAD and everyone needs twenty-seven of them, but -- find a road more traveled and better suited for your needs.  This one's unpaved.  With signs up.  And an old lady standing in the middle with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in one hand and brass knuckles on the other.  Shaking her fist.  Slurping gin.  Passing out.  In the road.  Dust swirling around her nutty old head.

(That's not me, by the way; it's just some old bat I employed to repruhsent in the road so I don't have to.  I prefer to bask in comfort, poolside, with attractive young people spritzing me lovingly with Evian while others bring me food and wine and still others massage my feet as old-ladies-for-hire do my dirty work.)

I could go on, and I will, by golly.

Just as soon as I finish off this bottle of Blue Sapphire.

*gurble*

Comments

[Kathi D]

So, does this mean you won't be representing my new product, L'Elegante Douche D'Jour?

Or what.

[Aidan Donnelley Rowley]

Love this. Profanity and truth laden, bien sur. Can't quite tell if you are mocking product-peddlers or yourself (or both) which makes me love it even more. Signed, fellow (rookie) blogger who refuses (for now) to have ads or hawk other people's shit, em, life-changing, glorious products worth purchasing. Thanks for this. I heart your blog. I think.

[Neil]

No one ever asks me to sell anything. You would be surprised at the reactions I got at BlogHer when I said this. I got stares as if I were a leper or a freak. "Doesn't EVERYONE get emails every day?" Apparently not, if you are a male blogger without kids who likes to shop at the 99 cent store. I could tell that some who previously held me in esteem, now saw me as the type of person who would take the bus in Los Angeles -- someone you wouldn't want to know.

At least they want you to be a cheap hooker.

[lildb]

Neil, I swear this on my son's optic sensors: you are welcome to be a hooker around these parts. Any day.

(As long as the results involve fine dining, and I'm invited.)

besos.

[Major Bedhead]

Oh dear god, this cracked me up. I nearly snorted wine on my keyboard.

I've never been asked to sell anything either. I do "paid" book reviews, in that I get Amazon gift cards for them (am a book slut), but if I hate the book I will say that I did. I don't have ads on my blog, although I've been thinking about it, simply as a means to get the hell out of working at a big box store, but I doubt it will pay well enough, so I haven't sold my soul. Yet. Although if Thomas Keller wanted me to run an ad for one of his fine establishments, I'd sell that quicker that you can say mise en place.

[flutter]

I am so bummed, I was so sure you'd be the next blog-model for Nair.

[schmutzie]

You are being featured on Five Star Friday!
http://www.fivestarfriday.com/2009/07/five-star-fridays-edition-64.html

[Kerri Anne]

The only PR pitches I seem to get are the ones that look more like unsolicited email newsletters, and I take a large amount of joy in marking them as spam.