A handsome piece of deformity.

And an old woman, too. Or so I’ve been told by sources knowledgeable.

You’d think I’d have more to write about after a week’s worth of silence and my promise last week of a multi-month backlog of vitriol, but oh no, no… no. This post, this is all about me, baby; it’s all about me, and what makes me happy.

Happiness, despite what a certain Fab Four may have claimed, is not a warm gun. Rather, happiness is the guarantee of quality, even if said quality takes an additional handful of months to prepare. Now, if that quality involves the use of firearms and my being able to capitalize with impeccable aim and quick reflexes, well… that’s just dandy, isn’t it? Especially since I don’t have a lot of time at the moment, anyways. In the interim, I’m more than happy to spend the free-time I do have playing and re-playing Half-Life 2, and whiling away my hours constructing civilizations that worship and adore me.

Speaking of which, Steve Buscemi got it right… but then, dearest reader of my bosom, what has Steve Buscemi ever gotten wrong? In the classic piece of cinema known as Con Air, Buscemi defines irony as “a bunch of idiots dancing around on a plane to a song made famous by a band that died in a plane crash.” Hey, Steve, how’s this for irony? Confucian Romans grinding a Christian Saladin beneath their sandals in the name of pacificism. Yes, thanks to the miracles of crack cocaine Civilization 4, irony has never been more ironic, history more historic, nor my grammar more idiotic.

Need to put this slurpee down now…

And finally, finally… I’ve waited ten years for it, and my patience has been rewarded. At long last, …oh, the hell with it. I’m tired of typing. Those who know me already know exactly what I was going to say, and those who don’t, well, what are you doing here? Sod off!

What? Are you still here?

Oh, fine.

If you’ve read this far, I feel it only fair that I apologize–you, who hold this weblog so dear to your heart, are no doubt aware that this post, unlike the plethora that preceeded it, has a tone unique. It’s tone is not one that one would normally associate with me–if one knew what was good for one. Though it hardly passes for an excuse, I suppose the blame for this shift falls squarely on the shoulders of… oh… Blaine the Mono. Or David Bowie.

This entry was posted on Monday, November 14th, 2005 at 7:57 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.