Alas, poor bloggers

This is, I regret to say, what happens when Dave throws out a weird idea for public consumption.

At least I didn't clutter up his site with it.

   To blog, or not to blog: that is the question:
   Whether 'tis nobler on the site to suffer
   The sneers and insults of outrageous trollage,
   Or to take arms against a sea of comments
   And by deleting end them? To blog: to write;
   No more; and by "no more" to say we end
   The head-ache and the thousand horrid spams
   The Net is curs'd with, 'tis a constipation
   Devoutly to be flush'd. To write, to blog;
   To blog: perchance with links: ay, there's the catch;
   For in this sphere of blogs what links may come
   When we have posted that which we think best,
   Still give us pain; there's the respect
   We never get for porting heart to screen;
   For who would bear the emails from the proud,
   The meter stuck, the readership ungrowing,
   The pain of poorly-written prose, the fact
   That Instapundit knows not who we are,
   That N.Z. Bear considers us a worm,
   When we ourselves might our quietus make
   With a blank template? who would once endure,
   To grunt and sweat on every single day,
   To turn out e'en a paragraph or two,
   Though undiscover'd it must needs remain,
   To answer every comment, good or ill,
   And somehow to forget the ones who read
   Though their existence never be revealed?
   Inertia doth make bloggers of us all;
   And thus the art form that we know as writing
   Is covered o'er with arcane codes of markup,
   And writers who might someday be remembered
   Will this way, be they lucky, merely Googled,
   And lose the fame deserved. — Soft you now!
   An actual Trackback! Though I am not worthy,
   My traffic is augmented.