"I was too old for a paper route, too young for Social Security and too tired for an affair."
- Erma Bombeck, on why she became a humor columnist
This is my 200th post in this blog. It's the Hulles Bisontennial -- the Hulles Blog Bisontennial, that is. I only look like I'm two hundred years old. I was going to hang streamers and bunting from the blog header but the woman that's sucking my face in the bio picture wouldn't unclench and I couldn't see hauling her ass up and down the ladder with me so the blog header will have to remain unstreamed and unbunted.
The funny thing is, I've been writing in this web log for 197 days now so I've been averaging just a hair over one post a day including weekends and holidays. No wonder I'm developing a pronounced hump on my back and my face is permanently twisted into a rictus of sardonic postmodern glee. Jeepers. It's a wonder I can function at all in non-blog society. [Note: Of course he can't. - The Management]
And by the way, thanks so much to all of you for chipping in to buy me this new PhraseMaster™ Metaphor Mixer! At last I can finally replace the old metaphor mixer that I got 5 of as wedding presents for some marriage or another and quickly returned 4 of for store credit the next day before the divorce proceedings started. The old mixer was on its last legs and starting to make nasty clanking noises even on short phrases so hi-hippity-hoes, into the garbage it goes. I really like that the new one has a simile attachment and two special high-power metaphor settings, "Bizarre" and "Stun." I can't wait to try them out in my next blog post. Thanks again.
By some astounding cosmic coincidence, this day also happens to be the day some of us are getting together for Australian Rules Drinking at W. A. Frost. [Note: it really is a coincidence. And by the way, you are invited -- see the post cleverly titled "U R Invited." - The Management] But if this truly is a Chronosynclastic Infundibulum and Jupiter has aligned with Mars, who am I to stand in the way of Fate's sawed-off 12 gauge shotgun? Nobody, that's who. Momma didn't raise no fool unless you're talking about my brother.
So tonight I am going to party like it's on sale for $19.99 [thanks Apu]. I really wish all of you could be there, especially those of you who I especially wish could be there. I should have arranged for a web cam (or even better have cK arrange for a web cam) so you bloggers at home could participate in the debauchery at some lesser and safer level. Just so you know, in the early part of the evening I intend to drink with a vigor normally reserved for procreation, and later on I hope to procreate with a vigor normally reserved for drinking. That's why I'm bringing along my sex helmet, a plastic bucket of guacamole and my monogrammed tooth dam, if you're wondering what's in the backpack.
I'm a little worried about the weather though. We're supposed to get a decent snowfall by this evening, and in fact it's snowing albino cats and dogs right now. What if the morris dancers I hired can't make it? I will have brought the six semiautomatic rifles in the trunk of my car -- one for each reveler plus a spare -- for nothing. Crap. Even if the morris dancers do show, if the snow's deep enough the traditional two-minute head start will hardly be enough to get them out of range of being hit by the brass let alone be good sport. Sigh. I do so love the tinkling of the little bells and the fluttering of the handkerchiefs as the morris dancer flies through the air after catching a hollow-point in the back. Well, if not tonight then maybe we can have them for the Triceratennial. Maybe Adjutant Curmudgeon Blackmoore can make it then. I am given to understand that every morris dancer between here and L. A. quails and trembles at the mere mention of the name "Blackmoore". Even the name "Stephen" makes them wince a little. Renaissance Festivals are invariably postponed or canceled outright when Blackmoore rolls into town. The tears shed by the dancers' wives Blackmoore made into widows could make a river that... You get the idea. Anyway, I'll have to be sure to give him a little more advance notice when the Triceratennial draws nigh.
Actually, I'd like to stop and take a moment at this point to reflect upon the long-winded and illustrious history of this blog and the wonderosity of you, the people who read it. There, good enough. Let's party. And if you can't make it to join us tonight, hoist one for Hulles wherever you are. Hulles the 200-entry blog that is. I'll be busy drinking scotch (albeit cheap scotch) and getting my brain screwed out in spite of the helmet by some young popsy who is dying to be ROTFF with the Sex Dog.
Woot, whatever the hell that means.