Some thoughts on comments before the big game...

A bitch has been pondering a comment policy...but I really don't have the strength to adhere to one. I guess I like to take each comment as they come. But some recent happenings have inspired me to put down some thoughts regarding comments posted to this blog.

So, while I wait for Game 6 of the Stanley Cup to begin, this bitch is going to explain some shit that most of y’all already understand but some of y’all clearly need explained.

This is a bitch’s blog
With the exception of a guest blogging stint years ago by Brother Rob Thurman, my blog father and co-founder of the United Church of Bitchitude and Latter Day Drunks, posts to this blog are mine.

Mine all mine.

Pause, indulge in the chorus of Been Caught Stealing by Jane's Addiction, continue.

I used to allow the comment section to run free…like Homo Erectus roaming naked amongst the glory of unpolluted nature…but then some ig’nant trolls broke the Thou Shall Not Trifle commandment and the era of moderation began.

That's right - I moderate the comment section
Now, this bitch isn’t all that fond of moderating comments but I’m less fond of folks trying to use my comment section to take anonymous bowel movements in hopes of driving a bitch offline through the power of stank.

And I get to decide what stank is…which unfortunately involves wading through the muck (Lawd, what have y’all been eating!?)…because this is a bitch’s blog!

I’ve been called that before
A bitch has lived over three decades and all of them as a black woman. For the life of me I can’t understand why fools think they’re the first person to “go there” with me. Shit, if I had fifty cents for every time some asshole desperately tried to shake a bitch up with [insert traditional racist/sexist/homophobic/generally bigoted term here] I’d be able to put forth a stimulus package my damn self.

Shit.

I don’t remember asking you a Gawd damn thing
Blink.

Just kidding…sort of (wink).

I’ve always wanted to channel my inner Jules and say that shit to someone!

Cough.

I don't believe I called you a racist
When this bitch thinks someone is a racist...I call them a racist.

Every post about racism isn't about you...unless it is about you, in which case I'm probably calling you a racist.

Pause...allow to marinate...continue.

Reader discretion is advised
A bitch is not a fan of the school of tolerance. That does not mean I adore bullshit. Folks should know that some of the shit discussed here isn’t pleasant, easy or suitable for people of all ages…or suitable for those who have problems with race/class/orientation/identity/gender/poor people having something to say/liberals/progressives/dawgs and the people who adore them/Afros/feminism/Smartie-based goodness/reproductive justice/soul food/liking people from other countries or ice hockey.

A bitch was not born to educate your ass
Sometimes I want to school folks on why my ass is angry…and sometimes, most of the time, I don’t.

Since I don't have to do anything but stay black and eventually die, I don't have to.

But if I had a dollar (wink) for every time someone jumped up into the comment section of a post they clearly didn’t read demanding that I help them understand why I'm angry (translation - debate whether I should be), this bitch would be able to start the AngryBlackBitch exploratory committee and run for Ruler of the Known Universe.

That’d be nice, but so far no one’s established a cash for insulting as hell comments exchange program for bloggers.

If only...sigh.

Anyhoo, I could go on and on but the Game 6 of the Stanley Cup is starting and a bitch must be off...