Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Well, yes. What to do? Obviously, I must blame Chet the E-Mail Boy.
Earlier today, I was sitting here in my capacious lair, absent-mindedly stroking my marble bust of Milton (Berle), and a message was brought in to me by Chet from regular reader and contributor Kenny Smith, who had just sent me an interesting link to a website with old postcards of Alabama (of special note being several from the Loveliest Village).
In the course of our electronic exchange, Kenny noted that he would have been embarrassed had it turned out that he had already sent me the link in a previous message. I chuckled (virtually) and replied that if Mr. Smith (a real live journalist who writes not one but TWO blogs--this one, and this one) could stand the heartache and derision associated with being in the Axis of Weevil, he would surely be able to withstand the mistaken retransmission of a link.
It is then that Kenneth dumbfounded me with the statement that he was not yet IN the Alabama Scrapbooking and Recoil Society!
HOW COULD THIS BE!?
I DISTINCTLY remember sending VIA THE EVER UNRELIABLE CHET THE E-MAIL BOY the rules for admission and such. At the time of this revelation, I had Chet out in the parking lot with Luther replacing the driveshaft on the deuce-and-a-half. "CHET! COME HERE, I WANT YOU" I screamed into the intercom.
A short time later he stumbled into the vestibule of the office with his rheumy eyes rapidly blinking, coming quite close to knocking over my priceless collection of antique Texas Instruments TI-99 game cartridges.
"YESSIR, MR. O, WHAT HAVE I DONE NOW?" (Chet is hard of hearing, and thinks everyone else is, too.)
I told him of my little discovery about Mr. Kenny, and a look of terrible dread spread across his grease-smutted face. "Chet..."
Actually, I figured I must have just mislaid the paperwork, but if I could get Chet to admit to something, it would be much better and I wouldn't have to admit I made a mistake.
"I'M SORRY! IT WAS MISS BUTCH THAT MADE ME LOSE MY PLACE!"
I had no idea what he was talking about, other than Miss Butch is yet another one of his "girl"friends who comes around and bothers him while he's down in the boiler room, supposedly doing his chores. She's an Hmong woman close to a hundred years old who came here with her family in '78. Chet's never been able to pronounce her name, and she still only speaks about three words of English, two of which are "corn flakes," thus explaining (at least part of) her allure to Chet. (She can curse a blue streak in French, however, which I think is the other part of the attraction.)
Anyway, Chet kept yelling and stammering and saying he wouldn't do whatever it was he had supposedly done anymore. "There, there, Chet--everyone makes mistakes. But you need to tell Mr. Kenny you're sorry for messing up his induction into the Axis of Weevil, and we need to get him his notebook and pencil and desk right away. See to it! And be sure and wash my car." Chet thanked me profusely (and loudly) for sparing his employment yet another day, and I believe he sent a confused and long-winded apology to Kenny for the oversight.
SO THEN, after much roundaboutness and misdirection, it is now time to rightfully induct YET ANOTHER victim into the mighty and confused Cotton State Computer Journal Club! BY the POWER VESTED in ME BY Luther's brother Jilly who runs the NAPA store where we buy stuff, it is with great pride and honor that we install one Kenny Smith into the ever-increasing-in-size-and-influence nest of bloggers known far and wide to all as The Axis of Weevil!
Congratulations, Kenny, and you have now been placed beside the like-named Jim Smith so as to provide maximum confusion amongst all link-clickers. AND THAT'S NOT ALL! Kenny will be receiving the World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, containing a rack of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for his imaginary pickup truck, a package of Bubba's Beef Jerky (according to Dr. Weevil, this is homemade and is available only at the gas station at the end of Highway 82 in Bibb County); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester's Pecan Logs; a box of Jim Dandy grits; a 16 ounce bottle of Dale's Steak Sauce; AND a six pack of Buffalo Rock Ginger Ale!
A SAD NOTE INTRUDES, however. Jimmy from next door (not Jimmy from Accounting), has simply been swamped with all the huge influx of artistic projects brought on by our recent membership growth spurt. He has had a relapse of his condition, and the finest in Internet-purchased homeopathic medicines seems to have had no effect. Jimmy's aunt says he's just sulking because she caught him with a JC Penney catalog looking at the girls swimsuits and foundation garments, but in any case, he has taken to his bed and will not answer our telephone calls. Once Jimmy is back on his feet and his condition abates, we are certain that he will grace Kenny with a marvelous commemorative artwork. Jimmy's aunt suggested a mosaic of County Commission President Larry Langford done in aquarium gravel, but this might not be suited to Kenny's decor.
But we'll do our best to fix something nice. ANYWAY, all of you go say hey to Kenny!
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