Rodney Block is a professional reporter. He is a man on the street, in the style of the traditional news reporter tradition. Beleagured. That's what he is. Rodney. He's a very serious man. Rodney Block is a gentleman and a scholar, and Rodney Block is... well... he's looking for answers. Y'know? He's got questions. Real questions. I bet you got questions too, right? Questions about your world, about my world, about the worlds we share. Serious questions. I mean, maybe you've got questions about what you're gonna have for dinner, or who's gonna kiss you next, but Rodney, he's not worried about that. Rodney is worried. He's really fucking worried. Cuz shit is worrisome, y'know? Rodney Block is here, doing a public service, he's providing you all with a service, an important service. Human service. Rodney Block is a watch dog. He's there, inside your house, practicing his bark. He's gonna get the bad guys. Rodney Block is here to serve. He's reporting on all the news you'll never read, and by that, I mean, he's not reporting shit. Don't read this shit. You aren't gonna find anything you want here, you're just gonna get a headache because the flashing colors are gross and terrible and this shit is barely legible and it's probabaly already hurting your brain. I hate to admit this, but Rodney Block is reporting fuck-all to nobody in particular. Rodney Block. He's doin it. He's really there. The other reporters, they're not looking for the scoop. They aren't asking the real questions. They aren't beleagured. They aren't born of strife and despair the way that Rodney is. They're looking for the human interest story, the fluff. Rodney, he's not into fluff. Those other reporters want to be happy. Rodney encounters our world with a bewildering confusion and a nagging animosity. Rodney is nauseous, and if you aren't nauseous too, you aren't paying enough attention. Those other reporters, they go home and eat a TV dinner. They worry about their hair-dos. Rodney Block, he throws his ass into his work. Rodney Block IS his work. He does not exist outside of it. Rodney Block is form and content. Rodney Block is the shadow on the cave wall, and let me tell you, he's a creepy mother fucker. Like that scene with the vampire from the Murnau movie. Rodney's fingers are freakishly long and they are coming after you. Rodney Block loves humanity, and by that I mean Rodney hopes we can all be sick together. Rodney... you gotta love him. Rodney Block is a serious man. A very serious man. He's got a clipboard for crying out loud, and a pen. When Rodney Block hits the streets, he hits the streets with a purpose. Rodney Block is motivated by a deep sadness and unquenchable hatred. If you aren't nauseous, if Rodney Block hasn't made you sick, Rodney Block has failed. I bet you got questions about Rodney, don't you? I bet you're here, reading this cuz you've got questions about Rodney, maybe even questions FOR Rodney. I bet your first question is, "what the fuck?" Right? Am I right? I bet you met Rodney on the street or at a party, or at some event, and Rodney asked you some questions and you thought: "what the fuck?" Or maybe you thought: "this is cute" or maybe you thought: "what's the joke?" or maybe you thought: "ugh, gross" or maybe:_______ or:______ or:______ or: _______ Frankly, I don't give a shit what you thought. But, Rodney, he asked you these questions and then he gave you a business card, a little scrap of cardstock that he stole from somewhere, cuz Rodney... I'm sorry to say it, but Rodney just straight doesn't beleive in paying for shit. Rodney hates the commodity form like nobody's business, and I bet maybe somehow that's part of what made you curious about this cat, this Rodney, this stranger who came knockin on yer frontal lobe looking for answers to his questions. His serious questions. Well, Rodney asks questions, he doesn't give answers, so if you're here looking for an answer, here with a question that wants to be answered, maybe a question like: "where's the results of that survey?" or: "where's your article, Rodney?" or: "Hey jack-ass, I done participated in your cute little quesitonaire, now where's my pie charts, n shit?" Well, see, the sad fuckin fact is, Rodney is back on the street. Rodney doesn't tabulate results. That card, that little slip of shoplifted copy machine paper that Rodney fucking stole like a dirty-assed criminal, just like all the rest of you dirty-assed criminals in your white collar shirts, engaged in theft, engaged in illicit activity, fuckin around on the company dime or your parents dime, or someone's fucking dime anyway, because fuck it, y'know? Anyway... Rodney. He gave you a slip of paper and on that paper it said "The Dispatched... All the News You'll Never Read". Wanna know why? Wanna know why you'll never read it? Cuz Rodney, he doesn't write it. There's no story, all there is is this crazy-assed, dirty fucking criminal out on the streets getting in your business with his handshakes and his well-practiced stutters and awkward pauses, his quaint novice affect that makes him a little more tolerable, a little disarming, a little more likely to insinuate himself into your thoughts. All there is is the street, the survey, Rodney and you. Wanna know why? Wanna know why that is? It's because Rodney knows his shit. Rodney has read the fucking literature. Rodney know's all those mother fuckers, from Debord, to Adorno, to Baudrillard. You name it, Rodney knows it. Rodney has fucking read it and absorbed it and worked it into his criminal fucking mind. Rodney Block knows the maxims of Marshall McLuahan and for Rodney, see, there's no writing of reports, there's no pie charts, because Rodney knows, the process IS the product. For Rodney Block and Marshall McLuhan, the same fucking truth holds true: the medium is the massage. That's not a typo, if you're looking for a message, you're barking up the wrong tree, buckaroo. Sorry to dissappoint, but guess what? Rodney fucking hates you. See, Rodney beleives in his questions. His questions are important, I'm tellin ya. Look out for Rodney Block. The man is... I don't know how to say it exactly. He's dangerous. Underneath his affect, that clumsy awkward exterior, under that poorly cut thrift-store suit, Rodney Block is naked and he's not fucking around. Rodney is massaging some shit into your brain, and when I say it is some shit, I mean it is some shit. Some shit. By that, I mean it's dangerous. Rodney beleives that anathematization of the world IS an adequate response to the world, and he wants you to beleive the same. Rodney wants you sick as a dog and ready to kill. Rodney Block once made a cameo appearance in a shady film about the FBI. Here. Look. 3:10 That's Rodney. Talkin about blowing shit up. Oh, Rodney! Poor guy. I'm tell you, look the fuck out, cuz Rodney Block... he is out there, all the time, every day, just prowlin these streets with a clipboard, lookin for trouble. Rodney Block loves humanity, but he hates you. It's tough. I'm tellin ya, it's not easy being Rodney Block. But someone's gotta do it. Cuz, I'm sorry to break it to you, folks, but it really shouldn't be easy to be you either. See, Rodney Block, he's a man on the street reporter in the traditional man on the street reporter tradition, and that means he is our conscience. Rodney Block is the conscience of our sad totalitarian society, and if you've got a shred of humanity left in you, then you listen to your conscience, right? That's how it works. So, remember what Rodney said, remember the questions Rodney asked and remember which answers were the right answers. See, Rodney, his origins... where Rodney fucking comes from is from the mind of a lifer locked up in Mansfield Correctional Institution. Rodney Block is the fever dream of one of society's discarded fucking criminal masterminds. Rodney Block is a fiction. He's the replacement for the mass media reporter who will never call that prison up in Mansfield and bark. Rodney Block is here to remind us that we ain't got no watchdogs anymore. We got no protection. Our enemies are free to walk into our house, touch our things, and take what they want from us. The dog. is. not. barking. In fact, the dog is opening the door and then leaping into our laps and covering us with sloppy kisses while the enemies ransack the house, getting into our secrets, finding the sensitive nerve-endings of our heartstrings, and tugging on em. Our enemies have devoted hours and days and millions of their dollars to finding the best ways to yank our heartstrings around. They've rudely pulled and tugged on those delicate fibers until we're red, raw and chafing. We don't know shit anymore, and the fluffy watchdog just wants to cuddle, or maybe hump our leg. Our heartstrings are connected to the blinds and when they pull em, yank em loose, they drop the blinds down on us. We get confused. We lose our connection with the world. We lose all sense of everything real and instead we engage with the shadows on the cave wall. Rodney Block knows that Debord called that shit the spectacle, and that Jean Baudrillard calls it hyper-reality, and all kinds of other people call it all kinds of other shit, but Rodney Block doesn't fucking care about that anymore, cuz it's just another breed of dog. All the people who teach you shit about that shit, those French philosophers, they're humping your leg too. Fuck em. Rodney Block is there in your living room, watching you get licked and humped by your watchdogs and he's practicing his bark. He's all up in the corner trying to get your attention. Woof. Yeah, he's ugly and he smells bad, and he makes you sick, but I'm telling you, he cares. He loves you and he's tired of all the enemies who ransack your shit while you play with these academic poodles and mass media shitzus. Listen, Rodney isn't the only one barking at you. I know you've been barked at before. Shit, we've been barked half to death. We're in the habit of ignoring all the ugly fucking watchdogs. We been listening, but we're too afraid to do anything about it. Too afraid to even look directly at the enemies ransacking all our shit. Rodney Block knows that even the watchdogs who are trying to do their jobs have failed. Rodney Block is a failure too. He's barking at you and it is having no effect. Listen, you came here looking for answers and instead all you're gonna find is this nauseating color scheme and this frustrating diatribe about this fictional fuck-up reporter bumbling criminal fool clown named Rodney fucking Block. You wanna know Rodney? Let me tell you who Rodney is. Rodney was born from three facts: 1. the fact that america incarcerates more of its people than any other country in the world, 2. the fact that america systematically tortures the people it has incarcerated, using the most sophisticated techniques and amassed resources known to human history. 3. the fact that the media, the mass media, the supposed fucking watchdog media does not do their job, and 4. the fact that you, as a result, don't care. Rodney Block is a vengeful spirit enraged by your apathy. Rodney Block was born from the desire that someone would call the warden of the prison and say: "Hey, I'm Rodney Block from the Columbus Dispatch, if you keep torturing people, we're gonna report on it, so quit already, goddamn." That is where Rodney comes from, and that is what Rodney is here for, to bark. Rodney doesn't bother barking at the prison, he doesn't bother barking through the television, Rodney Block does not post the results of his stupid fucking surveys online because Rodney Block does not love you and he does not love your desire to read about yourself on the internet. That shit is sad and gross. Rodney Block is here to frustrate and intervene in your life. There is a normal flow and then there is Rodney, trying everything he can to stick in your craw, to get under your skin. If Rodney Block had a scalpal and a surgical saw, you'd better look out for him. I told you, Rodney is dangerous. If he had that shit, he'd slice open your forehead and saw through your skull and he'd bark directly into your brain. Rodney would massage your frontal lobe with his fucking canines. Lucky for you, Rodney doesn't have a scalpel and a surgical saw, Rodney's got a clipboard, and a pen. Rodney Block has got questions, and if his questions don't leave bite marks on your brain, Rodney is failing. So, you came here, off that scrap of stolen paper, and you didn't get what you were looking for. Instead, you got the ugliest fucking website I could build in an hour and a meandering rant that is about to finally fucking end. Hopefully, whatever curiousity or unsated desire led you to read that card and type in this web address, remains intact. Cuz Rodney wants you disturbed. Rodney Block loves humanity, and by that I mean, Rodney wants us all to be sick together.

Now get off the internet. Christ.


Rodney Fucking Block.