Saturday, January 2, 2010

Stop, oh yeah, wait a minut Mr. Postman

I wonder if anyone is reading this crap?  Er, stuff.  Yeah that's it, stuff.  I'll tell you this, I don't sit down in my big comfy recliner, cigarette in one hand (I'm gonna miss that), coffee in the other and type my random, and admittedly bizarre thoughts on my cordless keyboard just to revel in my own thoughts people!  I do it for you, the public, the great unwashed (you may want to re-think that by the way) masses.

This blog is for you, the downtrodden, the indigent, the lacklustre cadre that is the world.  Others may look down their noses at your sad, pathetic and repetitive lives but not me!  I write crap, 'er stuff, (I'll get it right, it's just tough to remember) to lift you up from your squalor, take your minds off your pitiful, dirty existence without once being condescending to you.  Hundreds of times maybe, but never once!

And what thanks do I get?  Do I get any messages left for me saying things like, "Darren, great post!  I laughed so hard I scared the chickens that I keep in my kitchen!" or "Hey my man!  Excellent post!  It's because of you I told the admitting nurse that laughter really is the best medicine and I didn't need this goiter removed after all!" or "Wow, your post changed my life!  I'm going to petition our government to allow electricity in our village so I can get a computer and read what I'm talking about, or writing for that matter"?

No.  I get nothing.  Nada.  Kablooey.  Every day I hop on my over sized bicycle (the one with the big wicker basket on the handlebars) and ride through the village waving to the locals as I head to the Post Office.  Every day I say "Guten Taag Herr Ball, any posted comments for me today?" with an adorably innocent hopefulness in my eyes.  And every day, Herr Ball says sadly, "Nein mein leepchen. No post for you today.  Perhaps they forgot, yah?."  He looks sad as I leave his shop to wander through the farmer's market outside singing about my angst.  Then I pick up some meat at the butcher's (he looks and talks ALOT like Herr Ball - actually all the shopkeepers do), and go back home to the Von Trapp estate which I purchased for a song (no, literally) from this really freaky family.  Man you should have seen the dutchboy haircut on the mother.  And I'm not sure, but I THINK the children were wearing curtains.  Well, that's another blog.

Anyway, long story short (hmmmm, how about long story less long?) I feel like I'm just a lonely little voice out here in the electronic wilderness.  Will that stop me from prattling on?  No.  Will that, ironically, inspire me to double my efforts and improve my writing talent in the process, thus leading me to a spectacular new career in literature? Uh, no, probably not.  But it will give me one more piece of crap, 'er stuff to post and really, isn't that the most important thing?  Again, no, but for some reason I can't stop asking rhetorical questions and then, blatantly ignoring the 'rhetorical', answering them myself.  The truth is it's too early in the morning to call anyone to gab.  So there ya go.  Herr Ball, I hope you have some posted comments for your leepchen today!

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