So you see, sometimes it’s a good thing that I don’t keep up with stuff here. Because while this is supposed to be an accounting of my life, the bottom line is if it’s not amusing no one cares. And sometimes I just don’t feel funny. Sometimes I feel anxious, or sad, or unusual, or like a carebear. And carebears aren’t really witty, they’re just cheerful. Which isn’t all that interesting.
For example, here are a few posts I would have written this week:
Monday – Last Night My Girlfriend Hit On A Homosexual TV Star
SYNOPSIS: That’s about it.
Tuesday – Why I Love My Staple Remover
SYNOPSIS: Because it’s tortoise shell, and not enough things are.
Wednesday – I Had Donuts For Lunch Today
SYNOPSIS: They were delicious.
Thursday – Everyone Should Stop Making Fun of Cat Deely Because When We’re Married It Will Be Awkward
SYNOPSIS: She’s the host of “So You Think You Can Dance,” asshole.
See? Why waste your time with 2,000 superfluous words? More importantly, why waste my precious emotional resources? A man shares only so much over the course of his life. While women may be renewable wellsprings of emotion and feeling, men are like small ponds. And as women and blog readers sip from them like deer in a forest, they are depleted until finally one day they are empty, which is the day you buy your first recliner.
Besides, I don’t know what sort of white rabbit we’re chasing anyway with all this writing and sharing. Take Rastus for example. Rastus is the guy on the Cream of Wheat Box. But Rastus is just a depiction of a real man, Frank “Irony” White, a chef who posed for the box way back in 1900 when Cream of Wheat was actually made solely by black men in hats named Rastus.
Then, in 1938, White passed away, a virtual unknown, with a blank gravestone. The man is on the Cream of Wheat box and he can’t even get a friggin “RIP, Rastus. Keep on creamin’ that wheat up in the Big Kitchen”? Finally, almost 70 years later, some guy named Jesse Lasorda started a campaign to get him a proper gravestone with an etching of the Cream of Wheat box on it.
My point being, if the goddamned face of Cream of Wheat can fade off into obscurity, even when it’s right there on the shelf next to the Farina kid’s face (whose name, by the way, no one knows – maybe it’s just a warm breakfast cereal curse?) then what’s the point of blogging? I like to aim all my actions at being remembered after I die, because let’s face it I’m into the “big picture” stuff. So if I have limited resources with which to entertain and an open-ended timeline for failure, why do I keep on trying?
And the answer is, this: