Wed., March 28, 42 A.B.

Before going any further I'd like to make clear that I haven't been quite the absentee blatherlord it may seem.

For one thing, "blatherlord" is not a word.  Although it may look like a word and post like a word and even scream like a word when stretched out upon a book rack, it is in fact no more real or meaningful a term than "snotman," "acrobot," "janitourist," or "bettemidlermeister."  Even though I wish it were otherwise (especially with regards to "janitourist," since I've long wished there really were people who travel the world at their own expense just so they might clean up other people's messes), the simple truth is that you need to get a grip and move on.

For another thing, I actually made an attempt to stop being such an awful absentee blatherlord last fall.  It was a stormy night, late in November.  Temporarily tiring of even my most unconventional faucet experiments, and feeling sorry for the two people who had been continuing to read this journal in hopes that I might actually mention the cat it is named after, I gallantly dragged myself to my computer and began to write an update.  A heart-felt  lament for the 4000 Americans injured by teapots every yea, I believe it was....

Alas, it was not to be.  The Fatebots - err, Fates! - conspired against me.  With a Big Assist from my own Stupidation.  Being out of practice and right smack dab in the middle of my haste, I began to write without bothering to draw the blinds first.  In no time at all, a wandering shepherd had spotted the strange glow coming from my office window and rushed to alert the local peasantry.  To cut a long story short, suffice it to say that instead of writing and uploading the monstrously enlightening entry I had planned, I was forced instead to run for my life to the old neighborhood windmill.  And can you believe it?  That rickety old structure actually proved even more combustible than the last time I was chased there by torch-wielding critics who can't write blather themselves and so spend their stormy November nights persecuting those who can....

Well, as dedicated as I am to you, my faithful reader(s), dancing pointlessly among the towering flames and then plummeting to my death rather tuckered me out and ruined the mood - you know?

When morning came and the mob dispersed, it was all I could to do to crawl back home to my non-threatening, easy-to-maintain laundry room faucets.

Moral of the Story:  Next time you're tempted to call someone an absentee blatherlord, stop a second and consider the possibility that he or she is really a seared mess of oddly resurrected protoplasm that's simply trying to enjoy its new set of sinkware without catching a glimpse of its hideously melted face in the gleam of the irresistible chrome spigot....




(© On A Dare by DJ Birtcher)


Oh man, how I wish it was MY hand on THAT baby!!

Even small amounts of the cleanest blather
can irritate the eyes of sensitive individuals.

Clumsily dragging one's gaze across a whole page of
rough-hewn blather can irritate the eyes of almost anyone.

Whether you're sensitive or clumsy, REMEMBER:

To avoid permanent damage to your retinas, be sure to
hold your peepers under running water for 15 minutes
at the first sign of discomfort you experience
while reading this journal!

And if irritation persists,
please contact your plumber immediately!