I was right in the middle of dealing with some pent-up gesticulatory impulses today when the call came. 
     "Is this Mr. Birtcher?"
     Yes, I replied, intending to lie but somehow messing it up. 
     "Mr. Birtcher, we regret to inform you that there's been a terrible thing happen."
     Oh?
     "A boy in Kentucky that you sold some surplus blather to used it this morning to talk his mother's ear off."

     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.
     To this I reflexively explained how my poor childhood, understuffed adolescence,  and lifelong low blood sugar level completely excused my behavior, but apparently the gentleman who called couldn't hear me over the dial tone which had come between us so I gave up after an hour or so of trying (having even gone to the trouble of looking up the proper pronunciation of "understuffed" in a medical dictionary just so there might be no misunderstanding)....

     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?
     Is it possible that it's actually the bullhorns, the floodlights, and the tear gas that's inhibiting my creative process?
     I don't think so but I'll let you know for sure if I ever get the chance to do a few controlled experiments.

     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?
     I promise to do the same for you if you're ever surrounded by men with guns, hounds, and extradition warrants.

     Honest.