Read My Lips - the blog

Regurgitated mish-mash from Brain Cell XC-27

George but what I was lookin' back on my paltry offerin's durin' today's run of postin's and I must admit I was in fine form. Seems the neuronic engine was runnin' on all two-and-five-eighths cylinders. I do know that a mislaid cup and eventual search and return to the place whence I get such filled did supply me with an additional 32ounces of that sweet nectar of life, Dr. Pepper, suchly so that the neurons were amply fueled. That is such an odd lookin' word, what? fueled, though likely not half as odd as eighths. I'm watchin' you, you know. Put that back down. You ain't 'spose to be playin' with that! You'll put an eye out! Oh, 'scuse me. I was screamin' at the poltergeist. Susie had one and it seemed like so much fun that I decided to get one. He's a real demon, this one. Has red eyes and skanky breath. Tic tacs just pass right through him, though. I know. I throwed a few at 'im. He jes' laughed. He does that a lot, laughs. And he touches stuff. No, not like that, you filthy-minded monster.

It seems to me that people used to give ya a bit more acknowledgment for recognizin' their stuff than goes 'round any more. Is blogger etiquette startin' to wane with the legitimacy of our form of grass roots publishin'? Or am I jes' some ol' romantic who jadedly hopes that people still think of one 'nother with admiration and camaraderie? Likely, I 'spose, it is 'cause I am a putz and jes' put up with their rudeness. That's me: putz. I wear the crown proudly and yet I ain't even really sure what it is. I think it's kinda like a schmaltz. What that is, I am totally without a clue. It's Jewish, but I'm not. It's a genetic thing, really. Physically, I am thoroughly qualified. It was not voluntary on my part, but thankfully no residual trauma from the event lingers at my advanced age. My imagination, however, has been known to run rampant when the thoughts of such procedure come to mind. May we move on? What were we talkin' 'bout? My putz? Oh, my and it's a long one. A ten footer, at least, and the green is slantin' jes' a bit to the west. Yeah, I can likely three-putz this hole. ^{Ooooh! He said hole.}

Folks, I don't jes' make this stuff up, ya know. Oh, wait, yeah I do. Don't ask me how, 'cause I don't know. This crap jes' comes to me, mostly when I am listenin' to Rush Limbaugh or Paul Harvey or the McNeil-Lehrer Newshour. I think of them programs as like muses. They cause my mind to wander off into weird places, tryin' to escape the inexplicable. The crap is hidin' way back in those dark and weird places in my mind and comes rushin' out whenever I open the door to go in. I catch a lot of it in my hands as it comes gushin' out my nose. What little I can understand, I transcribe 'pon these pages. Like I said, I don't make this stuff up, but like I said, I really do. I have fun doin' it and hope you have fun readin' it. If not, say so. In fact, if ya like it, say so. If ya read down this far, say so. If ya ain't got any opinion of any kind but jes' wanna post commercial links in my comments, go reside within the fires of Hades. As for my navel, it wants your love and affection. I jes' want a big goose. I wanna give it to Bob and his family. That Tiny Tim is such a cute li'l fella. Too bad 'bout that gimpy leg of his. Strike that! Bah Humbug! Bring on your ghosts, will ya! We can set up a playdate for my poltergeist. End of report.

Posted by Tiger at December 21, 2004 11:30 PM | TrackBack