14, 40 A.B.
was right in the middle of dealing with some pent-up gesticulatory impulses
today when the call came.
I'm afraid I don't recall much of the conversation after that. I
think I tried to claim to be nothing more than a retired part-time second-hand
twaddle dealer but apparently they had the Internet logs to prove otherwise.
I believe I then suggested the impossibility of any mother's ear being
talked off by her son without the mother's total acquiescence, but apparently
the idea proved too shocking even for a Kentucky resident and I got nothing
more than a stream of invective for indulging my "wild" imagination's "lame"
attempt to get me off the hook. With no other straw left to grasp,
I think I forthrightly asked if it might not have been the case that the
mother's ear deserved to be talked off - at which point I was told
in no uncertain terms that my local authorities would be notified immediately
and I could waste my breath trying to explain to them why I thought the
finest flowers of American womanhood should have their heads rendered permanently
unbalanced because of my reckless peddling of verbose nonsense to underage
youngsters untrained in its proper adult uses.
Needless to say, my day has hardly been normal since. I've tried
to compose a decent entry to post here all afternoon and for much of the
evening, but I've found it's a much harder thing to do while a sheriff
is pounding on one's door than I'd ever thought it would be. Cervantes
wrote much of Don Quixote while in a 16th century prison, after
all, and I've heard that F. Scott Fitzgerald managed to string some words
together while married to an utter madwoman. Who would have ever
thought that the mere uncoordinated tappings and rappings of my local Barney
Fife could so thoroughly interfere with my own proven ability to babble
incoherently on a page?
In lieu of an actual entry for today I hope the Online Journal Gods and
Goddesses will settle for a photo of me and my secretary hard at work tonight
brainstorming possible topics and charming witticisms for tomorrow.
And knowing what little bastards Gods and Goddesses can be, here's a second
photo proving that the rest of my staff is right here as well, working
on tomorrow's entry just as hard as I am.
So, until tomorrow, try to survive on those stacks of canned blather you
hauled in late last year just in case there was a Y2K problem, ok?
Back To The Good Old Days
Forward To Blather So Fine That
(©Now by Dan Birtcher while waiting for the Muses to return his urgent phone calls)