The Passing Parade: Cheap Shots from a Drive By Mind

"...difficile est saturam non scribere. Nam quis iniquae tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se..." " is hard not to write Satire. For who is so tolerant of the unjust City, so steeled, that he can restrain himself... Juvenal, The Satires (1.30-32)

Sunday, February 05, 2006

APOLOGIES TO ALL: Once again it is that time of year, folks, the time of year in which I have absolutely nothing worth saying and nothing even vaguely amusing crosses my mind. I've heard that in order to make a success of this whole blogging thing you've got to keep a constant stream of posts going at all times or else you will lose your place on the greasy pole of Internet success to someone younger and hungrier. I suppose I could flirt with my female readers, the way Neil over at Citizen of the Month does, but frankly, I think I am probably a more ursine personality than Neil is, and so he can get away with that sort of thing. When he flirts the whole effect is one of lightness and charm, and there are those long philosophical discussions with his penis and the whole separation from the always lovely Sophia that gives his blog its romantic tension. I, on the other hand, am not separated from the always lovely Sophia or the always lovely anyone else, for that matter, and my attempts at flirtation do not come off as light and charming, but somehow more than vaguely threatening, as if I were a neophyte serial killer trolling for his first victim. I recently took one of those 'which character from the Lord of the Rings are you' tests, and I was sort of hoping to be Sam Wise Gamgee, you know, the trusty sidekick type, the Sancho Panza to Frodo's Don Quixote, the Chester (or Festus, for those of you who came late to Gunsmoke) to the Hobbit Matt Dillon, always there with a word of encouragement to buck up our hero when times looked bad and the situation was hopeless, but not altogether lacking in seriousness. That's what I was hoping for. Instead, I find that I am an Ent. An Ent. I'm not even a person, I'm a damn tree. I'm probably poison ivy, too; maybe that explains this damn constant itch on my arm.

So I don't have much to say at the moment. I guess I could talk to my penis, but it is a rather inarticulate organ, unlike Neil's, and is not known for its philosophical insights into the human condition. Or we could discuss the situation in the Middle East, but frankly you're better off going to SimplyJews and asking Snoopy what he thinks of the situation; he actually lives there, unlike myself, who am cocooned here in our happy little burg. You know what I think I will do? I'm going to have me a pretzel, yes I am, or maybe a pistachio as well, although it's been a while since I've had a pistachio. The last time was Thanksgiving a few years ago, when my brother and me ate a two pound bag of pistachios between us before going in to dinner. That' s when I learned of the joys of biliary colic; a chunk of fat from the pistachios wedged itself in my bile duct and sent me to the emergency room, where I had to share a bay with a correctional officer who'd almost had an ear severed by a shank-wielding inmate. This was an embarrassing moment, to be sure; here this guy is with an actual emergency, cut down in the line of duty, whereas a pistachio laid me low...but it was a very tough pistachio, I'll have you know, a very tough pistachio.


  • At 11:01 PM, Blogger Neil said…

    How can you say you have nothing to day when that pistachio tale was more exciting than most Hollywood movies?


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