It’s raining, so I can’t sit outside and write my book–and just about to stage the climax, too. And I don’t feel like writing about the phony election, but what else is there? I”m a day late in writing a Newswithviews column and I guess that’ll have to be about the election–college nooze is just the same-old same-old, white people are bad, white people deserve to be punished, higher education doing its thing.
Incredibly difficult trivia question: Name one institution that hasn’t been turned against us. That hasn’t sold out to Far Left Crazy. Go ahead, try–just one. Betcha can’t do it.
As an old reporter and term paper writer, I never suffer from writer’s block–could never afford to. Never had the time. I don’t have writer’s block now: I just hate the nooze that’s out there to cover. How about an extra hymn instead?
I’m sorry. But this month is shot and I’m sitting here staring at the keyboard and the screen and just can’t seem to write anything. I’m even having trouble writing this.
My wife insists I take the afternoon off. Might as well try it.
Please, please feel entirely free to start profound, witty, and exciting conversations wherever you have room to leave a comment. That way I can say we’re having an experiment to see if readers can write the blog
I hope I can return and get to work in a couple of hours. Well, I pray I can, at least.
Holy cow! Could this be the end of Oy, Rodney–the world’s most epic romance novel?
Introducing what ought to be Chapter CCCLVI–we don’t know what happened to Chapter CCCLV–Ms. Violet Crepuscular confides in her readers, “Dear readers, I confide in you my well-nigh overwhelming misgivings for the continuation of this tale. This latest development, I fear, exhausts my creative capacity. I hate it when that happens.”
Reader Suzanne Pokemon, of New Gambia, Wyoming, has amazed us by accurately predicting this latest development–wait for it!–
That the lost city of Driphdrash, lost for millenia… is somewhere in Scurveyshire. And that’s where the medieval sorcerer, Black Rodney, makes his headquarters.
No wonder she feels overwhelmed.
“I grew up on the legend of Driphdrash,” she confides in her readers (does she really have to keep doing that?), “and I always felt there must be more to it that the tiny snippets of lore we find printed in out-of-the-way places on assorted cereal boxes. Driphdrash the Mighty! Driphdrash the Doomed! The birthplace of gorgonzola. And to discover, this late in my life, that it’s hidden somewhere in the county of Scurveyshire, and that I, of all people, have been called upon to reveal its mysteries–I could just plotz!”
No wonder Violet feels overwhelmed. It’d knock me flat, and I know judo.
This is like watching a big motorboat zoom into a small marina with its 250-horsepower motor roaring on full throttle.
“This could affect Lord Jeremy Coldsore and Lady Margo Cargo’s wedding plans,” Ms. Crepuscular (No! I won’t say it! A simple “writes” will have to do).
Here she takes time out for a Marshmallow Peeps-with-ketchup sandwich. Driphdrash will stay lost, if they know what’s good for them.