Dear readers, beware, this blog post comes with profanities and a shi*&%t load of humour, or not. You have been warned.
It’s been a hell of a day. Facebook held me to ransom with a knife to my neck, kidnapping 37 342 of my 43 000 readers. They sent me a ransom note demanding a thousand dollars for a sponsored boost in return for the eyeballs of a mere 798 of my people. The rest had clearly already been shot.
Then I got this. A note from Mr You’re F*&%cked (his actual online moniker) who kindly left the following comment on one of my older articles published in 2014 that must have had some SEO love today. It’s about where to take your dog to the snow in Australia.
Mr You’re F*&%cked didn’t think much of it.
“Eat a dick, 4 grand for 2 nights in the snow. Why don’t you just f*#$ck me without taking me to dinner first. What a f*#%cking joke. I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
It was a tough choice, I mean $20 could release another 5 eyeballs of my people held to ransom by Facebook. Do I take the $20, boost the post and free more people or do I, as Mr You’re F*&^$cked, suggests, eat a dick?
Then I found the kind ramblings of John. A regular blocked reader from our community who sometimes goes by the name of Michael, Craig and Sam, they share the same IP address (yes, I can tell) and troll genes.
He had let loose on the dear buyers at Aldi in response to our piece on why their annual sale is good for the ski industry.
“Most people at Aldi, looked like they couldn’t afford to buy their ciggies, let alone go skiing. I must have missed the sign that said feral bogans only.”
Should I take Mr You’re F*&#cked’s $20 and buy ciggies for these feral bogans at Aldi that John protests. The ones that, shock horror, can’t afford to go skiing thanks to the $4000 for two nights that offended Mr You’re F*&#cked so much?
Silly me turned, instead to Mr 1 INDIVIDUAL (yep, that’s his moniker) of 7 billion who was highly offended by the piece I wrote about what I’d tell my snow child if my snow child was a boy.
Time for Mr 1 Individual of 7 Billion to attend Angry Individuals Anonymous and for me to step away from the computer. You are right though, he didn’t and neither did I.
Trolls come with the territory of running an editorial publication online. It’s a long way from the stalkers I had in those heady radio days of my ‘youth’ when one suggested he’d like to slice my tits off, oh, oops, silly me, that was the program director of one of the stations I worked for. Nice way to create a safe work environment. But that’s another not so funny story.
I really meant to tell you the story of the hippy chick listener who came into the studio as a guest announcer one night, brought a cake and didn’t eat it. This sugar addict, me, inhaled it and spent the next 24 hours doubled over on the toilet tiles. Lesson learned. Don’t eat what a listener brings you, especially if they don’t either.
Or that time a man called my producer to tell me one of our regular listeners and callers had died, killed himself, and I was to meet him (the brother) at the cemetary on Monday to collect the $900 000 he had left me. Trust me, the Nigerian bankers were clearly schooled by this guy.
When I told him I would call him back he panicked and told me if his mother answered the phone and sounded odd that I must remember she is in shock as she had just finished mopping up the blood. I didn’t take his calls after I called the police and they informed me no one had ended their life in that suburb that night and then informed me the man in question already had a record. Suffice to say security walked me to my car after my radio shift each night after that.
Then there’s the sweet young mother of three who used to show up wherever I was as if she had a direct line to my calendar or publicist (if I had one). She later transitioned into a male, found my address from the electoral roll and wrote me a slightly disturbing letter. I have since moved to an undisclosed location. Though I do wish him well, just not in my life.
So, really, dear trolls. I have already weathered the pre social media storm, I have lived with security escorts in dark car parks. Your keyboard warrior words cannot hurt me.
Though I must thank Mr You’re F*&%$ked because his comment literally had me laughing out loud. Like, really laughing not fake lol laughing.
I’ll take the twenty.