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.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
AFTER COMPLETING MY ARDUOUS ASSIGNMENTS, I had just returned to my swanky office in the lush and spacious Axis of Weevil World Headquarters Building, and collapsed onto the simulated Italian faux leather sofa (from Sofa Explosion, only $199 with a matching ottoman with mini-cooler and remote control pouch) that I keep for just such collapses.
As the worries of the morning drifted away and as I teetered upon the brink of sleep and awake, I sensed an odd presence hovering over me. It was the same presence I had felt in the jungles of Thailand, in the howling alkali sandstorms of Death Valley, in the fetid coffeehouses of Antwerp. Hovering. Waiting. It filled me with dread--
"What do you want, Chet?"
I opened my eyes and saw him standing over me, his grimy ink-stained fingers working over and over a small slip of paper. "MR. OGLESBY, I HAVE THIS HERE PAPER AND..." I motioned for him to quit screaming at me. Chet the E-Mail Boy often likes to joke to the janitorial staff that he is 'deaf in one ear, and can't hear out of the other.' Which would be fine, but as is the case with some older gents, not only does he suffer this affliction, he seems to believe it is a common malady, requiring that he use his outside voice all the time. Not that his outside voice is that much louder than his reedy, brittle, inside voice; but, still, no one wants to be shouted at, no matter how quiet it might be. People can be so inconsiderate, you know?
"Chet, we've been through this--paper scraps go in the paper scrap receptacle we call a TRASH CAN! Remember? And on Fridays, you go through the building and gather up everyone's little trash cans full of paper scraps? And take them to the incinerator in the back yard? And burn them? Remember?!"
"BUT! BUT, SIR, IT'S FROM SOMEBODY!" His harsh squeaking took on a pathetic whininess, and as I opened my eyes again I could see that he had started to get all teary-eyed. I took the paper from his hand-- Oh no. No, no, no. I could see that in my recent sickness and recent burdensome task of having a real job, I had somehow forgotten this quiet, lyrical cry for help that was left in the comments so very many days ago.
The only obvious solution was to blame Chet entirely for this fiasco, and see what I could do to salvage the situation. I leapt from the sofa, "CHET! How could you let us down like this!? After all the boxes of cornflakes I have bought for you!" Before he started sniffling too much and making spots on the floor, I told him to control himself, and to get downstairs at once to his telegraph key/e-mail interface and send out the Official Membership Rules, and get some information on this young lady.
Amazing what you can find out from a perfect stranger, let me tell you. I tell you, this girl is some more kind of poet! I bet someone could make a song out of that line! Ooooh. We demand a pretty high standard when it comes to the literacy requirement, but I suppose we can make an exception. Now THIS is how one should pay proper respect! One only hopes that there's also room under that pillow for a nice warm 1911. There is no reason to get personal, madame. You need a rule for that?! Don't they have that effect on everyone!?
IN ANY EVENT, in spite of days of neglect and my own indisposition, it is obvious that there is NO impediment to adding yet another member to the Grand and Glorious Cotton States Sitting Society. SO IT IS, with no further ado, and with as much pomp and ceremony as is able to be gathered together in my weakened state, AND BY THE POWER VESTED IN ME by someone dressed up in a purple Pegasus costume (who might have been a decongestant-caused hallucination), we do hereby INDUCT, INTRODUCE, and INSULT Montgomery's own Glory Girl, producer and director of the fine journal What's New, Pussycat into the proudly lackadaisical and procrastinatory Axis of Weevil, with all of the damages and mayhem devolving thereto.
AS IS OUR TRADITION, GG will be receiving her very own 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 her Sephia F-100, 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!
BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE! Jimmy from next door, who has a condition, seems to have become quite smitten with our newest recruit and her ability to write "that Japanese poetry stuff," as he calls it. He has decided to embark upon crafting a special, Far-Eastern themed gift for Glory Girl, a lovely imitation bonsai tree created entirely from the internal components of a Nippondenso alternator taken from a 1979 Toyota Celica! It promises to be quite the spectacular artwork.
ANYway, all of you be sure to say hello to Miss Girl and thank her for her patience in receiving her official status.
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