The Dark and Light Side of Rabble Rousing

Fetal Position

You may have noticed that there’s something happening here on the site. What it is ain’t exactly clear, but there has been a lot of action this summer from a complete redesign to signing on some new writers who, we must admit, are much more engaging to read than our original team of finger painting preschoolers.

If you are wondering what happened to those paint speckled hooligans, here’s what we know.

Origonal Rabble Rousers

Billy has moved onto water colors. Jessy, because she’s brilliant and has one of “those” fathers who is obsessed with the idea of having a child in Mensa, has skipped the first grade and plunged full bore into University studies at an ivy league where finger painting is frowned upon. Izzy is pursuing a life of hog hunting and has gone full boar in that direction. Betsy, who we always knew was an outlaw at heart, has saddled up her steed and headed West. No one has seen so much as a purple finger print on a post card from her since. But knowing what we know about her, that evanescent attitude tossing around joie de vivre, we’re confident she’s having a gas of a time and putting that kindergarten education to good use as she gallops the open road.

Here’s what you can continue to expect from your amigos at RRTW: 

In 140 characters or less: RRTW is committed to having new content daily of an intrepidly awesome and engaging scale.

In one run-on sentence or less: We will review films, discuss art, make cat themed memes and occasionally take it upon ourselves to explore the deeper questions of society and life, such as, what’s it all mean, and how did that squirrel learn to play a banjo–but mostly, we’ll be content to have a laugh with you.

In 10 characters or less: Kowabunga!

Anyways, we’re happy to be taking the site to the next level and are glad to have loyal readers like you onboard the ship. Part of recruiting the new talent has involved putting ourselves out there, on Craigslist.

From my recent experience in being on the other side of a Craiglist advertisement, I have concluded that Craigslist consists mostly of people who want to murder me, want to have sex with me, want to murder me and then have sex with me, want to have sex with me and then murder me, and people who want to work with me.

Seriously, in addition to some legitimate replies to an advertisement I put out soliciting humor writers, my inbox has been bombarded with messages and attached word documents that left me feeling more broken inside than an iPhone on a trip to the blender spa. In the very least I felt like I should call the Internet police to let them know that there were people like the ones who emailed me just roaming the internet. Of one submission of over 1,000 horrible words, I offer the most tame sentence: “When this whole nightmare of life is over, the angels in hell won’t even take you, you miserable human bowel expulsion.”

I am not making this up. This was the most family friendly sentence of the whole submission. Through the course of this man’s email were combinations of inappropriate words that I never imagined could ever by coupled in such horrible predication.

Where do these people come from?

Answer: The Internet.

Likely access point: Their parent’s basement.

Anyways, though it was scary at times, when I emerged from my closet and unfurled from the refuge of the fetal position, there were some gems–some genuinely witty people that we hope to be publishing on RRTW soon. One query I enjoyed enough that I asked the author, Lindsey Shaw, if I could publish it.

So as Rabble Rouse The World gets more Rabbly and extra Rousey, gracias to our readers. I leave you with a query letter that made me laugh and not feel like the sender wanted to murder me, which is really what I hope for in a query. It is also entirely possible that the man on the G Train Ms. Shaw is talking about is the man who sent the Fetal Position inspiring submission.


A Query Letter from Lindsey Shaw

I was recently on the G train,which is always a daunting experience as is, and from the emergency door that connects the cars emerged what I later found out to be a “Crusty.”  The kid’s arms, and I say “kid” because he couldn’t have been more than 16, were covered in tattoos, he was wearing an Old Navy shirt, albeit dirty, stretched at the neck while a size too small and accompanied by a canine companion. 

He rambled apologetically about interrupting every one’s morning for the sake of his disparaging cause. Said he and his dog needed to eat and how he was just trying to get his life together. I was enraged. Not because he was someone begging. I give to panhandlers all the time. In fact, in the span of a city block, I can donate the equivalent cost of a Venti Starbucks drink to the betterment of street dwellers. But these “Crusty” characters seem to be rich kid, meth heads who got mad at mom and dad and want to “damn the man” by invading our wallets…
Then my anger subsided and I realized maybe they’re onto something. Maybe I got bitter because they’re getting away with what everyone else is too proud or lazy to take a stab at. Perhaps I should try and become a “Crusty,” infesting city transit with cries for hand outs all in the spirit of bemoaning corporations far and advantage-taking wide! Eh, I’d rather just write about and poke fun at the system than attempt to futilely dismantle it with the aid of dirty animals and face piercings.
All that being said, I’d love to write for Rabble Rouse The world. Please let me know if this can be arranged.
Lindsey Shaw

Luke Maguire Armstrong

Luke Maguire Armstrong

Oh Luke Maguire Armstrong knows the Muffin Man. Oh yes, he knows the Muffin man. Luke is an author/musician, raccoon survivor, who has done educational development work in Central America, The Bronx, and Kenya. His work to battle infant malnutrition was featured on ABC News 20/20. He has never fought a bear and is the author of four books, including "How We Are Human" and "iPoems for the Dolphins to Click Home About." Read his bullshit at or follow him @LukeSpartacus and he will sing you songs.