There comes a time in every young blog's life when it becomes a curiosity as to how viewers find it. And what that blogger discovers often leads to a post about these findings. So I went to my fancy Webmaster tools area and perused the list of search terms. And found these:
"thongs for men"
I had to see this for myself. Would my blog really pop up when a viewer googled "thongs for men"? I sifted through pages and pages of ads for man-thongs, instructions on how to wear them comfortably, why they may be harmful to scrotums, offended posters tentatively asking why they are considered taboo, and even links to pictures of male "whale tails." Around page 35, I started to worry about coworkers coming into my office unexpectedly or a virus suddenly freezing my computer screen right when I had scrolled over the link for "Topless Men in Thongs!" Maybe this was a post best left for when I get home...? But by then, I was determined. I had to figure out why my blog would be linked to this particular search query.
Finally, I found it. A link to my Pushy Books and Moratoriums post last month. Wha? I didn't remember writing about thongs, let alone thongs for men. I re-read the post to be sure. Then I realized what was happening: Google was mocking Keene.
I had written about how he makes jewelry, and how he "also crochets, knits, and sews." I couldn't believe it. Google was making fun of him, implying that because he has some traditionally feminine hobbies, he should be wearing a thong.
"Oh!" Google was saying, "Look at ze girly man!" Yeah, I get it. But I'm not happy about it. Not happy at all. Way to push negative stereotypes, Google. I would have expected this from MSN, but not from such a forward-thinking company as yourself. Frankly, I'm disappointed.
Which is why I did this:
Oh! What's that I see, Google?! Are those...thongs you're wearing? And a bra? Only girls wear bras, Google. And is your G playing with a Fun in the Sun Barbie? Oh my, that's not very manly at all, now is it?
See? How do you like it? Bet that doesn't feel too good. Please think twice before making fun of my boyfriend next time, mmkay?
This search term led to my DIY Hairdo post. Yeah, I get it. It's time for an eyebrow wax. I'm about to change my home page back to Yahoo, FYI. Yahoo may be ditzy and way too excited about its daily horoscopes, but at least it never made fun of my eyebrows.
Strangely, this search term also leads to the DIY Hairdo post.
(In fact, most of the search terms for my blog led to this post. "Short bangs," "razor bangs," "dreadlocks with bangs," "boho hair"...)
So I have decided Google redeemed itself at least a little bit. I kind of think it is just sucking up at this point, if not a tad crudely. But I'll accept the apology, anyways.
I was impressed to see a search term in Russian. I assumed at first that this meant my fluency in the language has become so fantastic that I was now seeing in English words in Cyrillic letters. But apparently, the part of my brain that is randomly turning English words into Russian is more advanced that the part necessary for translating it back.
So I Googled.
Apparently, the blog has gone and made a niche for itself on a global scale without even consulting me. Didn't you stop to think how I would feel, blog? Do you think I want to be known as the girl with the hair blog?
"scorpions life is too short"
When I read this sad query, I thought, "I agree. Scorpions' lives are too short! Poor, little guys..." But then I wondered exactly how short their lifespans were to warrant such internet curiosity. According to Wikipedia, the scorpion lives for between 4-25 years. Wha? Twenty-five years? Dogs don't even live that long! That seems like plenty of time on Earth for some little creepy-crawlies!
Feeling more betrayed than sad now, I googled the full phrase and got this:
I'm pretty sure I just failed the "Child of the '80s" test. I will promptly turn in my leg warmers and Corey Hart button.
"time for drunken horses"
Yep, that's what I always say.
"What time is it, Kelli?"
"Why, it's time for drunken horses, right? High-five!"I wasn't able to find a picture of a drunk horse to accompany this portion of the post. So instead, here is my brother, feeling up his horse.
Yeah, Jeremy! Hit that!
A side note about my brother. I went to a high school in Wyoming five years after he left. Five years. He didn't even live in the area anymore. Nevertheless, on my first day as the new kid, I was immediately bombarded by girls, from Freshmen to Seniors, giddily asking, "You're Jeremy's sister, aren't you? How is he?!" They tittered and giggled and blushed and tried to hint at how they knew him. "Lalalala" my brain would shout, as I figuratively stuck my fingers in my ears. "Well," each girl continued, just like the last, "Tell him Sunny/Jennifer/Summer/Jennifer/April/Jennifer/Autumn said hi!"
For two full months at that school, I was known as "Jeremy's little sister," and only when I made a name for myself (i.e. "bitchy new girl") did the horde of girls finally leave me alone.
Notes from the Future: I found a drunk horse! Thank you, Google!