I have 50 followers now.
I'm not particularly proud of how I got my 50th, because it may or may not have involved me telling Lily over at Tapdancing In The Dark that I would pee in her bee hole. Mostly may. Oh, the measures I will go to to get a little more attention. Sigh.
Anyway, I basically have something to get off my chest.
When I started this blog, I didn't have any idea what a "Follower" was. I just knew that I had some things to say, and that I thought other people might find them hilarious. When I first started getting followers, especially ones who didn't know me, I was thrilled. Then I got a few more. Then a few more. Next thing you know, I'm promising Sweet Baby Jesus that if I can get 20, I'll never ask for anything else ever again. Then I won a caption contest, and for sure, I hit 20 and then some.
Since I've promised to always keep it real here, I'll tell ya. I got obsessed. It became my mission to get as many people to join me in my little laugh factory as I possibly could. I may or may not have physically assaulted a few of you to make you join. I offered Jeff over at This Is Why Your Hold Time Is So Long candy bars. I threatened Ed over at Ed's Funny Pages by stealing one of his kids. The point is, I just got too wrapped up in it all. I have bitched to Ed about one certain person that REFUSES to follow me, even though I've followed them for 568 years. I've sold out, in a sense, because I've even followed people that I didn't think were funny because I thought they'd follow me.
No more. I've hit 50, and I'm done worrying about it. 50 people think I'm funny enough to put up with my bullshit everyday, and I think that's pretty kick ass. I should be thanking those of you who deal with my insipid rantings, and that's what I'm going to do.
Thank YOU! (see, that's in big letters, so you know I mean it.)
So here is my pledge to The 50.
I, Travis Sloat, do hereby pledge and promise to empty all of my spare minutes and seconds of free time (unless involved in any of my many other hobbies such as golfing, fishing, playing sports badly, yelling at Tony Romo, cheering on the Duke Blue Devils, eating, singing recreationally, making sweet sweet love, cooking for The Missus, and being lazy) into this blog, making it the funniest thing you have ever read, which will in turn make you laugh until you cry, which will make you want to send me large sums of money.
There ya go.
This brings me to part two of my little spiel.
Some of you may be saying, "That little bastard is talking about people not following him, but he's not following me, and I'm funnier than he is, plus I have bigger testicles/boobs." I can understand how this would make you feel. So. Here's what I'm asking you to do. If I am not currently following your blog, please send me a message, or put it in a comment, that you want me to check you out. I will do so, and upon discovery of your funniness, or the picture you send of your testicles/boobs, I will follow you straight into the fires of hell with a water pistol and some Gatorade. (it'll have to be sugar free Gatorade, because of the diabetes.)
I just want to say that I love you all, and if any of you ever need an organ or legal counsel, I will provide both personally. That is to say, I will represent you myself in court, or we will drug someone, take their organ, put em in an ice bath, and find a cheap hospital that may or may not sterilize ALL their instruments, but by god they don't ask questions about the fake HMO card that we've made out of a copy of your drivers license and the back of cereal box.
And that, my faithful few, is Real.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Equal Opportunity And All That Jazz...
I'm a husband, father, son, brother, and friend. I teach English and Literature to the youth of today. I love Jesus and my mother, and I'll gladly introduce you to both. I love photography and writing. Duke basketball keeps me occupied for half the year, and hating Chapel Hill keeps me busy the other half. As you can tell from the title of my blog, I like stories. I'm a big guy with a big voice, trying desperately to be heard by someone before The Lord takes me home. Let's be best friends.