I met one of my 10 readers a few weeks ago. He turned his head like a confused puppy and asked “Why do you write this?”

I did not have an acceptable answer. I’ve been thinking about it for two weeks.

Both of us were surprised when we figured out I’ve been writing this bullshit for more than 5 years. In 2017, I had two conflicting goals. I wanted to go “viral” with millions of fans awaiting my every cuss word, AND keep it a secret from co-workers, family and people I wanted to respect.

I only told the wife after I was outed by Lewis Black.

After typing out five bullshit stories about the wife, the boy and the human condition, I posted them on a free Wix site. I was going to quit. I don’t need no stinkin’ diary. I was the only one reading it.

Blame Lewis

A few months in, the wife and I went to a Lewis Black show in Phoenix. He walked off stage, and we thought it was over. He walked back out and started reading “rants” from his audience. I went home and wrote one. Didn’t tell the wife. Submitted it; he read it live and carried on the internet to thousands of people.

Tried to repeat. Learned comedy is hard. Out of 100s of stories, 6 got read. Only 1 or 2 got laughs. It’s been 2 years since one of my rants made a Lewis Black show. No traffic increase to the bullshit blog.

Yet, I persist.

Get Famous?

Since 2018, I’ve done a lot to get more people to read this shit. But I’ve settled into about 300 “visitors” a month. Most of them are “me.” Traffic has dropped about 20 percent since 2020. Even I’m not as interested in this bullshit as I used to be.

While knowing the numbers will regress to the mean, I check the bullshit stats constantly. I answer every comment (some get passed me). I spend time googling “marketing blogs” (done every item on the list except “create great content“).

Gave up on my crusade against the false belief in profanity. Spent $18 to change the name from kieranbullshit.com to kieranhumor.com so I can buy ads on Twitter and Facebook. Bullshit was an instant “block” for being a dirty word. Signed up to spend $30 on Facebook, at $1 a click. Didn’t get a click, so it didn’t cost a dime. Not even Fuckerberg’s greed can drive people to read.

Twitter still won’t take ad money from me — even with a cleaner title, I’m still a “dirty site.” Fuck. Fame and fortune from bullshit blogging is off the table — even as a fantasy.

Yet, I persist.

Friendless

I’m not looking for new friends. I can’t keep up with the ones I have. But there have been moments when I felt adjacent to the “writing community.” In an unspoken quip pro quo (you like, I like; you leave a funny comment, I leave a fake insult…) we have circled each other around the bowl of the internet.

But I’m certainly not ranting for other writers. They come and go (mostly go) and I haven’t followed a new blog in years.

Yet, I persist.

Real life is slightly better. Sure, my bullshit has cost me a few connections. I would say friends, but we were never that close. I have called grown men assholes, flaccid penis’s and goat fuckers. But those are the ones who stick around. I lose people for saying they are “retired” (when they looked too old to work) or “religious,” (when they sounded too stupid to read) or have the “personality of a crustacean” (that one wasn’t even close to the truth but hit a few nerves).

The crustacean line may have destroyed a USTA recreational tennis team as players fled the asshole with a blog to play with “normal people”.

Yet, I persist.

Truthiness

I’ve been consistent. Usually Tuesdays and Thursdays — some old stories get to be new again as I hit the recycle button — I figure no one read it in the first place…

My interest wanes. Sometimes I think about funny things as a fall asleep and giggle as I write about some bullshit I would say only in a bar. Other times it feels like I’m smashing big rocks into smaller ones as I pound the keyboard to put words on virtual paper just because that’s what I do on weekends. Later I go back to read. I can’t tell the difference between joyful blog and soulless slog.

But once in a great while, I hear about a line I wrote that rings true for other people too.

“All my family in Ohio, kept laughing at me for my metric shit ton of useless information,” Expert Bob said last spring. “I got a little tired of hearing about your blog.” Of course, he was the one who told them about it.

Last weekend I was riding bikes with my friend Mark in Flagstaff. I had called him a liar and a dissembler.

“I had to look up dissembler,” Mark said. “But to be fair I only lie about bike rides.”

I can’t verify that fact. I only ride bikes and drink beer with Mark. He dissembles about how many miles we will ride and how many bars we will hop. We always end up doing “extra” of both.

Kim (his wife) and Marci (their friend) read that rant.

“On the next ride Kim yells ‘liar’ and Marci ‘dissembler,” Mark said. “Every time we added a little hill or a new turn:

“Kim: Liar.”

“Marci: Dissembler.”

Rinse and repeat, “liar and dissembler,” several times a week for a month — if I’m lucky this running joke can last years.

That kind of shit warms my heart. I guess that’s as good as any reason…

So yes, I persist.