Much like porn, one can’t define good writing; it can only be read. Though, bad writing, it is becoming increasingly clear, can. Especially those that attempt humor – a good example. Humor, or a particular style of it, by definition, has to become stale relatively quickly; after all, there are only so many ways in which it can be achieved. The poorer the quality of the writing, lesser its longevity. Barath falls into a category of appealing to emotions with some misdirection and ambiguity thrown in. The milieu is Tamil upbringing. That theme is so straight forward that someone who has read him a few times can predict the set up and punch line; assume the narrative drift and the mock philosophical conclusions. All without even reading his write-up. Maybe it’s unfair to him that I use his example — he is a poor writer — even the more gifted writers of prose with a greater degree of sophistication fall victims.
Greatbong, Krish Ashok and several others are ready examples of belabored attempts at humor that are way past their laugh by dates. The simple yardstick to measure bad writing in all the above instances is — people started to react. Of course, if they had not, they would have still sucked. However, the feedback makes the slotting of oneself that much more easier and thus becomes an irreversible process. There is no way in which Greatbong or Barath can now become funny.
When I started this rant, I thought I had a great idea on how eventually all blogs or these extended forms of interactions will be self limiting. But that now seems so fucking obvious that I don’t know why I started to write on it. Which probably explains the point of this more beautifully than I can.
 — One could add this blog to that list as well — but that would again be a bad attempt at a bad joke.