Emptybottle.org

Is it anti-communitarian of me to say that I'm wryly amused by all the 'bloggers' jostling like wee piggies for a nipple at the Democratic convention? That jockeying for pole position in the anecdote-race to be the first to fellate the rich and powerful is a teeny bit distasteful to me?

Will I get in trouble (again) with all those otherwise good and smart people who are all a-twitter about the fact that they really really matter now? Now that they're inside the chalk borders of the pentagram? I mean, it's cute, all right. Sure. Like the wallflower become belle of the ball. And having them tell themselves, and us, in public, how it's a sign that the heavy elements of democracy are sinking through the clouds of the blogosphere, like the glittering dusty fallout from the Blog Bomb, back onto the heads of the Common People? That a change is a-comin? That's precious, and may even have a kernel of truth to it. More power to 'em. But.

But I'm still waiting, and still looking, for one -- just one! -- who has the bravery and the cockeyed gonzo ballsiness to rip a few new assholes in the purveyors of all that sanctimonious 'America The Great' autowankery, and, say, fling an empty Royal Reserve bottle at the stage while Joe Lieberman does his coattail ride into obscurity. Metaphorically or otherwise. And then write about it. In realtime.

How I wish that there were a few writers there splashing their talent (and cocktails) all over the web. Not just permalink patriots and also-ran digerati, but mad bloggy bastards who'd give me some stank, some snark, a few laughs. How I wish Rageboy could've gone and kicked out the motherf--king jams, or dong_resin, or Golby the crazed. Whoever. Just somebody whose panties don't go all damp at the idea of getting spattered with John Edwards' sweat.

I don't want to see digital snapshots of you posing with some other blogerati dildo or fawning over some Real Celebrity, framed with a bit of Commentary Lite, damn it. I want you to write something that will make me laugh and weep and want to go and break a bottle over someone's head (or laugh and weep and give somebody an equally random big ol' kiss on the lips), then dance like a tarantula-bitten gypsy. Something to fire me up a bit! I want a Hunter S Thompson, by god, a Mencken, somebody with a bit of rage and a bit of juice in 'em, with too many damn words and a talent for juggling them. Someone who sees the opening, seizes it, then drives a juggernaut of text right through the quivering greasy middle of it, while lesser mortals scatter in fear for their lives.

Hell, maybe there are bloggers out there doing that at this convention. If so, point me to them. If not, well, get me a plane ticket and a pass to the Republican Clusterf--k, and I'll do the damn job myself.

Never send a blogger to do a wonderchicken's job.

[Update : Well, OK, this is pretty damn cool. But I'm stickin' to my knee-jerk contrarian guns, damn it!]

[Update 2: Well, besides the Mighty Fafblog, even if I do have my suspicions that Fafnir and Giblets aren't actually there. Still: fafferrific or faffelicious? You decide!]

[Update 3: Oh, crap. Me and John Freakin' Dvorak. I'm turning in my decoder ring.]

[Update 4: f--kin' A, Tutor, my old nemesis.]