I feel like I’m suffocating here, folks. Sticking to the standard 2 cents pundit/asshole role is starting to feel a little confining. I gots to find me a new bag, or at least let out the old one a bit. It’s starting to bind a bit ’round the crotch and shoulder area. And this is a burlap bag we’re talking about, mind you. “Discomfort” is just a vague, unknowable notion until you’ve had the whiskey-like harshness of burlap rubbing away the tender skin of your precious nethers like potatoes bruised, battered and rubbed raw on a bumpy trip in the back of old Ford. (whew, well that’s going in as my entry for the blogosphere’s 1st Annual Most Overworked Metaphor Award. .. I’m gonna get me that Amoma!).

So, what was I talking about, again?

You were telling us about the time you beat jury duty.

Oh right. The trick is to say you’re prejudiced against all races.

But back to blogging. See, thus far I’ve squeezed most of my blogging blood from the turnip of my political/cultural opinions, or rather my Andy Rooneyesque displeasure with everyone else’s. Follow that path much more and the typical entry will sound something like: “Blogs make me feel like I’m going to the doctor . I don’t like the doctor. His office smells funny and there are lots of weird shiny things that I don’t know what to do with. Do you ever wonder why dogs have black lips? Speaking of dogs, take out the ‘d’ and put in a ‘bl’ and what have you got? “Ogsbl,’ that’s what.”

You can only get so far on such gas. Cranky political carping is, almost by definition, a dead-end as far as progress goes in one’s personal growth as an online scribbler. When you start out as bitter, jaded, and angry at the stupidity of the world, there are only a few places you can go. You can burn out and quit when you realize that chronicling the idiocy of Maureen Dowd with an acerbic wit and lots o’ cussin’ isn’t going to net you fame or fortune or even the occasional chick, or you can be drawn further into the vortex of pessimism until you’ve become the type of person who sees the first bluebird of Spring and reaches for his porch gun.

I don’t really consider myself a warblogger (I mean, who does these days?) . I didn’t plant my keister on the bloggin’ bandwagon until that dead horse had been beaten into a fleshy pulp and the useful bits were being collected for the glue factory cart. Save for perhaps Matt Welch (who I suspect gets off on the warblogger kick the same way he does with the whole weird cowboy thing), everyone has branched out to bigger things, like the cultural battleground, the issues of domestic freedom and civil liberties, and kittens.

Yes, that’s right. I want to be a kittyblogger. I want to throw off the shackles of smartassier-than-thou punditry and embrace the soft furriness of the domestic diary. I want something small and fuzzy to dote on and whose every insignificant instance of basic everyday behavior I can detail for the benefit of the blogosphere and the world at large, as if the object of my affection had shit a nugget of gold everytime it didn’t see fit to walk the 15 feet or so to the litterbox.

“Today, Cuddly Widdums coughed up a hairball. I thanked Cuddly for the gift and went out to buy him a new diamond-studded chew toy . I hope he likes it. The last time I tried to pass off that Zirconia mouse little Widdums was trying to claw my eyes off as I slept for weeks. It’s so cute when trying to blind you. he thinks he’s people.”

Yes, that would be the bee’s knees, but unfortunately, my co-op doesn’t allow pets, at least not any kind of pet as complex and warm-blooded as a cat. I suppose I could try fish, but snuggle with them for more than a few seconds and you have to get yourself a new fish. I could always adopt a child, but they’ll just start to get bigger and more bothersome real soon and I’ll end up having to flush it down the toilet. So really, the only option that is left is to follow suit with the way that millions of kitschy idiots followed in the 1970’s . No, I’m not going to get a massive oil shortage as a pet, althought I do hear that they are highly trainable and are good with kids.

I want to become a pet rock blogger.

Think of it: me keeping you rapt with stories of how my little bundle of granitey joy sat motionless this morning, then spent the rest of the day eroding.

Don’t like that idea?

Hmph. Well that’s all I got.

I suppose I could always try porn. I don’t think anyone has thought of doing that with the internet so far.

last update : 26-5-2018

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