At the suggestion of my tech-weenie brother-in-law, I am now running Google Ads on my site. And my soul is alternately enriched and repulsed. [hunting socks]
On the one hand, a buck's a buck. (Well, almost.) And in the week since I joined I've made five of them—enough to buy me about 10 ounces of beer at any of my old neighborhood hangouts. (Sure, I could plunk for a pair of PBRs at the frat bar up the road, [Muenster cheese] but I've come too far in life to reduce myself to chugging hipster swill among meta-ironic pinheads. I'm somebody's father, for God's sake.) At this rate, with patience, diligence, and prudent re-investment, I figure I could have enough for a week's rent by Easter '07. [plasma screen]
The downside of all this loot is the thought that, right now, these words are being caressed by swarms of commerce-hungry nanobots [Willy Wonka] that are looking to match their ads [pointillism] with my content. (You may have noticed that after my post about Robert's glooey kerflooey, the ads were mostly for adhesives.) [cranial acupuncture]
As long as they're lurking, I might as well serve up something they can sink their little nanofangs into. [1965 Mustang] So in keeping with the Experimental Method, this post [widewale corduroy] should give the bots [hoof and mouth disease] several diverse topics to munch on [badminton], and I can just sit back [crisp Bibb lettuce] and see what new faces [Somerset Maugham] will steam up my little window of financial intercourse. [intercourse]
Godspeed, and happy shopping. [rampant consumerism is killing us]
