OK, We're back. Now what?

I guess the rambling, bitching and articulation rages on with the jocular enthusiasm of a food processor beating an egg in it's pilot operation. Little does the motor know that someday the owner (fictional character, loosely based on the author of this blog) of aforementioned processor will stuff so much spinach, egg & broccoli (he's into eating healthy and just saw Rambo, peeps) into the receptacle that it'll self lock, splutter, swear, engage and set off like a mini bomb (small kaboom and all) trapped in the belly of Mr.Creosote as a wisp of smoke emanates from his belly button to announce the sad resistance laden demise.

In the large scheme of things I'm digressing. I've been known to do that. For instance when I was five years old, my family visited our native soil and we had some guests over. My dad spent some earnest time and effort introducing me to everyone as a decent, charming five year old. The adorable little tumbleweed that I was, instead of engaging in a passionate conversation about the benefits of building a Death Star-Annex in South Canara I proceeded to investigate the potential of a successful flirt with the man's four year old daughter by plugging at her skirt and offering her some candy. Now, it was a truly gentlemanly effort at luring this woman into some hearty talk about rap music & gourmet sushi. Fifty Cent to be accurate. Instead, she took off bawling like a four year old and all I remember is experiencing a sharp sting on my left cheek.

Seriously though, writing to me has become sort of therapeutic. I had to google the spelling. Grammatically speaking, I feel compelled to write every time I feel good or bad. I don't know if this will spawn into a book someday or toilet-bowl literature, but I've got my hopes high enough to spread butter on some toast. As for now, I intend to be a little more religious about maintaining this blog with the dedication of a fourteenth century Japanese carpenter who's just discovered democracy & Playboy. Don't even talk to me about being focused. I use so many similes in my graphic descriptions that even when I die, the final moments will be described as articulately as the recital of annual profits at a conglomerate of evil corporate, insect eating scantily-clad, board members.

So stay tuned. Or at least keep a tuning fork handing. It sounds really funny when struck with the flick of a middle finger and thumb.

images: http://www.bobvila.com
http://www.courier-journal.com