I was just now on the Blogger site Google forced me into creating in order to comment on posts by a writer here who jumped overboard, abandoning this perfectly sea-worthy Xanga ship for the desolate horse-latitudes somewhere else. Seriously lonely anywhere but Xanga.
Mixed feelings though. I have a good 200 Subscribers, but receive input here from barely 5 percent of them. What’s an agressive drunk to do?
Well god-dammit, I’ll show them who’s the boss! It’s currently raining like hell outside, so I’ve
got time to kill. I’ll go down the list and each and every stinking derelict who hasn’t found it
in his heart to have anything good or bad to say about my 1000 carefully-composed posts here will get a tactfully-worded (hah) private Message explaining his debt to Xanga-society. While I’m at it, I’ll check when’s the last time they seem to have even looked at their Page. Workers found innocently dead, through no fault of their own, will be respectfully removed from the premises. For those who simply fell asleep, a brief attempt shall be made to awaken them, after which, depending on the results, they may also be escorted to a nearby landfill.
But God be ye Merciful in Heaven, Amen, unto the Condemned who appear to be conducting an active ‘Life as Usual’, but have forgotten or ignored their signed-in-blood Oath to pay me attention. Plenty of rotting fruit in that Vintage where the Grapes of Wrath are stored, and I shall wickedly enjoy tossing it at their blithe heads.
Later, after sober reflection:
Sorry, everyone. I wuz drunk. I might have said stuff, you know, that I didn’t mean. Damn, wish there were a ‘Delete Message’ option. You-uns guys is just fine by me. I’m sure you got your reasons./ JS, Embarrassed in Tel Aviv
And of course none of this, past the first paragraph, really happened. I just whole-clothed it to see how it hung on my shoulders. “An interesting approach…”, I told the drunken tailor, “but it’s not, you know, ‘ME'”