Ladies and Gentlemen, please help me give a warm welcome to:
Hi, I'm the Pantagruel.
You may think you remember me from that time I started my own blog and stole the comic ethos from that other more popular blogger and her husband. You remember? The one who wrote about shrink-wrapped salami.
|And don't forget intersex fish!|
|It was fun while it lasted.|
Anyway, my old blog was getting too successful, so I had to shut it down because of Obama.
Also, I may have given the slightest hint that I disagreed with his sanctioning of the redefinition of
|I'm watching you, Pantagruel!|
Yes this counts as a strike.
Anyway, some of you folks were also, like, creepy, going to my page at all hours of the night. I don't know who you are Vampirestat, but aside from Droney here, you were my biggest follower.
|Did you get my fanmail?|
Yes, I did. Seriously, please stop asking: I'm not going to become an OT, and besides, some of us have a mouth to feed, and pot pies are friggin' expensive.
Listen, this blogging schtick is harder than it looks. Really. I mean, it's a good excuse to call yourself a writer, and to drink like a writer, but it pays basically nothing.
And maybe some of my fellow bloggers can back me up on this one:
Sometimes you put your fingers to the grindboard, sweatily tappa-tappa-tapping away for hours, only to look back on your work and realize that all you've written is a gorgeously ornate description of how you were hungry, so you looked in the cabinet for something to eat, but the only thing there was two-year old granola bars, so then you looked in the other cabinet . . .
That puts me in good company, though, right, because didn't Flannery O'Connor say something about not knowing what she thought until she read her own writing?
That Flannery O'. In another life, we could've been soul mates . . .
|You mean thetan-mates, which don't exist,|
unless you sign a confidentiality agreement, but
even then, who can you really trust, y'know?
I'm just sayin', FOC and I are both really good writers, and we're probably both really good conga dancers. Well, I don't know about her. But I know I am.
Chachacha! . . . Wait, is that a pocket-chain?
What is this, like, 1996?
|I already call you Cleaves of Gras. Me and my friends|
call you that. Anne, she calls you the Great Fatsby.
Shhhh, my little peachick.
Okay, today's post is going to be about one of my favorite subjects: wait, nevermind, I'm tired.
|'Cause I've been, like, workin out a lot. Flan.|
Gonna go find something to eat. So . . .