Seattle Space Needle Reflection at Night

Everybody’s a Critic

Giraffe Pissing

I have a very difficult relationship with my blog. I always have. It’s a love/hate relationship if ever there was one.

Lately, however, it’s been more hate than love, and a couple of months ago, I seriously considered hitting the almighty ‘delete’ key and putting the Internet out of its misery. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

Each time I went back and read one of my posts, I always thought “man, what a self-important, narcissistic, negative, misanthropic, whiny piece of shit.”

All I ever do on this thing is complain.

Clearly, life isn’t all bad, though. Sometimes, it’s downright pleasant. My family is wonderful, my colleagues are great, and I’m fortunate to have friends who aren’t passive-agressive, hyper-effeminate posers who use the word “amazing” in every other sentence. Trust me, in modern day Seattle, I’m one of the few people who can make this same.

This being the case, why is my blog such a black cloud? Why does it seem like all I do is bitch, moan, whine, and complain?

For whatever reason, with me, anger fuels passion. When it comes to creative endeavors, negativity … frustration, anger, depression, etc … motivates me more than happiness and contentment. It’s the way I deal with negative things. It’s my catharsis. My prozac. My wrist-cutting.

When I’m in a great mood, I have no desire to sit in front of a computer and tell people about it. Instead, when I’m happy, I want to go out and do stuff … productive stuff … fun stuff … happy stuff.

When things are good, I have no anger, and the less anger I have, the less passion I have, and the less passion I have, the less likely I’m going to bang out a 2,000 word article at two in the morning.

I’m never going to write a blog post entitled “Everything’s Just Fine”. If everything’s just fine, I’m going to enjoy the fact that everything’s just fine … I’m not going to jinx it by bragging about it.

And …

After the thousandth email calling me a negative jerk, and thinking it over for a couple of months, I’ve decided to stop feeling bad about it.

“You’re always so negative, you complain all the time, you’re a whiner … “, the critics may be right, but I’m not going to apologize for it any more.

You see, the world needs misanthropes. It needs pessimists. Every bit as much as it needs optimists. Probably moreso.

Remember the guy that built the better mousetrap? He was a pessimist. He looked at the existing mousetraps and declared “These fucking mousetraps fucking suck!” Then, while the other townspeople were busy having fun and attending ice cream socials … he sat in his basement, cursed under his breath, and built a better mousetrap.

Look at our forefathers. The people who fled England and started the USA. You think they were optimists? You think they looked on the goddamn bright side?

Hell no, they didn’t. Half of them died on a boat somewhere between Buckingham Palace and Plymouth Rock just so they didn’t have to share a country with people like you.

Trust me, I know the feeling. I’m not in the goddamn far-flung, isolated corner of the USA by accident.

Pessimists are unpopular people who, more often than not, do shit. Certainly way more than their glass-half-full counterparts. I’ve put more free content on the Internet over the past 7 years than any other unpaid individual I know, and you and I both know that it’s way more than you and all of your happy, cheerful friends combined. Face it, malcontents rule the world … the rest of you are just too busy drinking beer, watching football, and posting pictures of your cat on Facebook to realize it.

The other question I’m sick of answering is why I choose my topics.

“Why did you write another post about the weather? Why is there another picture of the ferry?”

Do you really want to know why I just posted another weather piece?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Fuck you, that’s why. If you don’t like it, feel free to surf over to The Stranger and read Dan Savage calling 54 year-old housewives squares because they have the audacity not to take it up the pooper.

Ohhhh … edgy!

If I write about something, that’s what’s on my mind at the moment. That’s what motivated me to put words on a monitor. I don’t know why that is, nor are you owed a goddamn explanation. My blog is free to you. I don’t have ads, I don’t set tracking cookies, I don’t make shit from any of it. I could talk exclusively about my morning erections for the next 8 years, and you’ll still have gotten more than you paid for.

After a couple of months off, I realized that if I was going to continue this blogging thing, I was going to have to make some changes, and the first change is to invite you all to kiss the crack of my ass.

I don’t owe you anything. I never have. If you don’t like my website, then guess what … it’s not for you. Feel free to go elsewhere. I care nothing about traffic, popularity, or your approval. In fact, on that last point, nothing could concern me less.

“I used to like your blog but I don’t anymore because blah blah blah”, good for you, go tell your mother because I don’t care. I’m not your fucking dancing monkey, and I’m not here to entertain you. If you want to be entertained, go buy a lap dance.

This blog is the goddamn Seattle Rex Show … either turn it on or turn it off … the fuck if I care either way, and I mean that with every ounce of sincerity that I have.

Last but not least, I don’t have to publish every one of your stupid comments. If they’re intelligent and add to the discussion, I gladly will. It does not matter if you do or do not agree with me, if the comment is intelligent, I’ll publish it. If it’s the same tired bullshit, however, then it will completely depend on my mood.

You are not owed a say on the blog that I pay to publish. I have no obligation to you whatsoever. It’s my bandwidth, my disk space, my digital home. I work too hard and pay too much to maintain the thing for you to come and projectile shit all over it. I don’t have to run your poorly-thought-out brainfarts under my name so that they are forever indexed beside the words that I paid to publish. This is especially true when you don’t even want your own name to appear beside your words. If you don’t want to be identified with your comment, don’t expect me to want to be identified with it. I don’t owe you an audience that you’ve done nothing to earn.

If you want to call me a fuckbag, get off your lazy ass, turn off the TV, spend some money, spend some time, make your own website, and call me a fuckbag until your heart’s content. The more power to you. If you ask nicely, I may even help you set up Or go to the den of noise, insincerity, and mediocrity … social media, and say it there.

I guess what I’m really trying to say with all of this is … I may or may not continue the blog, but if I do continue it, it will require me to do one thing first, and that thing is to tell each and every one of you to go fuck yourselves. In order to stop repeating myself, I need to write a post to refer people to when they email me for the nine thousandth time to call me negative, bitch about my topics, or complain that their idiotic, useless comment was not published.

Consider it done.

13 comments to Everybody’s a Critic

  • laclasse

    You rock. Best writing style ever, tell it as it is, it is a shame too many people in the world have lost their sense of objectivity. You clearly have not, congrats and thank you for the good reads!

  • Jayx91

    Well said sir,

    Fuck us all!

    Merchandise is made for the consumer, art is made for its own sake. It can be seen in any musician, painter, or other artist who gains critical acclaim and immediately achieves mediocrity.

    It can be said that only ignorance is bliss. Truly exceptional people are those who choose to see the ugliness and stupidity of society and are moved to make a difference. Those who criticize your blog for being too negative can go ahead and take their blue pill with breakfast, listen to popular media telling them that “It will all be okay, you will be taken care of”, and donate to breast cancer or march in slutwalks when they need to feel like they are making a difference.

    The rest of us whether we always agree with you or not will appreciate that this site is not merchandise, it is not Khao, it is not a place to have pre-digested, politically correct bullshit regurgitated into your mouth.

    So please continue writing about the weather and the ferry and whatever is pissing you off at the moment because that is exactly what brings me back to this corner of the internet time and time again as opposed to the millions of other sites out there. The fact that you write exactly what you want to write. Not because you are being paid to or because someone asked you to, but because you have something that you want to write for its own sake.

    And that sir is art.

    -Jerry Voight
    //Rex fanclub
    – Michigan branch –

  • MarkB

    This will seem random – BUT – thanks for getting the whole “couldn’t care less” / “could care less” thing right (“nothing could concern me less…”).

    MOST people say/write: “I could care less.”

    Which means they care. Which is not what they’re trying to convey.

    Anyway – BRAVO. It made my day to witness somebody actually get that right. I have hope for people again…

  • Jeff Adams

    Rex, I love you, man. Let me buy you a beer. Beer tastes good and it makes me happy. I want to share my happiness with you. I appreciate you and the pain all of this is causing you. While you have been gathering and contemplating your pain, I have been resting and gathering my own strength in no small part because you are one of the best things to have come my way in recent years. Maybe it confirms the zero net sum theory and if so, let my (beer) cup spilleth over into yours; it’ll make no difference to the greater world, but may help us both find our balance. I found a fiver on the street today near some twentysomethings begging for my spare change. Apparently what they really needed was a little initiative and not the five spot….beer!

    Life 3.0-It gets better

  • bobgreysr

    What’s so wrong about a little misogyny anyway? Seems like its the only tool left for us to keep the bitches in their place anymore.
    I like you Rex because you say it how it is and you let us say it like it is. Fight the good fight man.

  • johannes

    The land of elks and polar bears say’s – keep it coming. We want you – even if we can’t have you for mayor or vote for you.

    //Rex fanclub
    — Sweden branch —

  • Mark Smart

    Rex, I’ve been reading you for a while (started with VegasRex). Sometimes I agree with you, more often, not. But you express yourself from a point of view that I often find to be enlightening and thought provoking. So while I realize you “don’t give a fuck what I think”, that’s cool. I still hope you keep writing.

  • coolpacific

    That actually put me in a good mood for some strange reason.

  • John Wulff

    This is exactly the attitude I happily pay for every month. Please ignore any and all feedback, I don’t come here to read what other people think.

  • Andrew

    damn typo, it should read “…being told to fuck off…”

  • Andrew

    Finally! Someone who doesn’t cater to the masses.

    And if you quit blogging, well, my rss feed will be down a blog.

    Also, since I’m not a huge fan of being to fuck off repeatedly:

    Fuck off Rex.

    • Jim

      Rex I too have been on of your longtime readers. I like to think I am not one of the 98 percenters but I probably can see it from my perch.

      I read you blog daily and have always liked your writing style.

      I do not always agree with you but then I could say that about anyone in the world.

      You are saying thing that need to be said!!!

      If I strongly like what you have written I try to give you a positive comment. If I don’t like what you say i just go on to another bookmark.

      You need to quite letting these flamers getting you riled up.

      Honestly tell them to F@#k off. and then move on.

      You let these weasel/skunks/s#*theads bother you way to much!

      Rex please keep up the great work.


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