satire

Important Things To Say.

Hello, hello, hello! It’s a-me, that one guy here to tell the news:

I actually don’t have any pertinent matters on which to elaborate–sad stuff, I know, but the truth is, eh, pertinence is a matter of perspective for those experiencing pertinent events. Significance falls into that camp just as easily, and I’d say it doesn’t matter, save to those who endure significant what-sits and bingle-bogles along the life not so frivolously traveled.

The act of writing a blog post somehow implies a matter of utmost importance. Hm. I may concur, though in more instances than not, I wonder if the (a) post demands importance by virtue of its being written. Imagine that: a run-of-the-mill post foisting false honors upon itself before telling people, “HEY, LOOK AT ME! I’VE GOT FANCY COLORS AND A SPLENDIFEROUS SENSE OF ETHICAL PRUDENCE!” Not to mention, its fonts are, uh, real eye-catchers, Calibre and Arial Black getting ink injections at the local watering hole.

Let’s say this is an important post. Let’s say I’m writing this as a matter of duty to whatever principles swarm my mind for the next few days. You argue that this is an average post, and I respond: “But I said it’s important–look, there’s bolded words and–

–fragmented paragraphs.

You insist: “If it’s so important, then what is it about?”

“Importance.”

“How ridiculous. You can’t write about importance. Importance insists upon itself.”

“I beg to differ.”

I mean, have you even noticed the citations I spent hours knitting together into a neat bibliographical quilt?

“Citations? I see no citations.”

Ah, you see, that’s because they’re at the end of the post, and you’ll have to take my word for it.

Important topics, important topics…maybe I can insert a talking point one of the most trending subjects in the recent three weeks—pssh, three weeks, make it about the last six hours. Certainly an option that is guaranteed to garner massive commentary and platinum ‘viral’ status. Great idea. Now I’ll go scroll through the headlines for the next thirty minutes and steal the more apt sentences, fitting them to my stylistic liking.

First line:

“Good morning, great people, and have you considered how long a dolphin can live?”

No, no. I can do better.

“Greetings, fellow bloggers, I’m writing about ‘such-and-such,’ oh, and I hope you don’t mind my kissing ass afterward in order to get more people on my site, get those numbers up. Season’s Greetings!”

[Incidentally, the post was published in July]

A valiant effort I can be proud of before I go about networking. Gotta make sure they’re all up-to-date and chock full of modern-day references.

As for an ending–well, it has to be memorable and witty and quite concise.

So.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

ID 124500090 © Savenkomasha | Dreamstime.com

This, Our Grand Establishment.

Oh, man, how about this world? have I told you, or have I not? Funny place, to be honest: I’ve never encountered more humor in so small a frame. Maybe it’s a large one, medium-sized, and maybe these things differ with seasoned years [ha, as if we’re sirloin steaks sitting out on the stove!] Perspective enlarges and minimizes, objective actions without any moral obligations–ahem, to be frank: “neither good nor bad has any proper proper standing in this, our grand establishment, world of wonder and woe.

Take a load off, people say, and you do, then they tell to you take off another one. Ludicrous notions, and it is hereby proclaimed, “how dare the usual strangers submit outrageous propositions within so close a proximity!” Ugh, said the pack-mule before trudging off into realistic delirium where supposedly his cousin, Camel, was doing a photo shoot for a cigarette company. The smarminess of the guy, thinks he’s got skill, talent, know-how, who-what.

If we took half of the world, then, and dragged a scimitar through it, would it spew confetti? Millions believe so, and millions are not wrong–millions are never wrong. Millions walk dogs at sunrise. Millions drink orange juice on trampolines. Millions work in workplaces situated in the work-buildings of Work-a-ton. Millions–ope, no, dozens…Nevermind. The list is blank, and the sun has just mooned us for the fiftieth time today. Turn to page fifty-four for a concise summary accompanied by bright ’50s era sketches designed by an underground hermit named Garth–[say hi, Garth].

At least it’s not falling apart and tearing at the seams and going down the crapper and swimming [swimming?] without a paddle. At least all of the dogs are fine; they’re always so pleasant. As a matter of fact, in recent years, studies have shown, things are supposed to be–whoah, did you see that whale skateboarding?

Think daily,

A Southpaw