A Pointless, blathering post

Sometimes I look back on my posts and wonder, "who is that guy?" and why is does he speak with a Norwegian and Inuit accent?

It never feels like me. In fact, I'm not sure I even found a voice; a style. Even though I write in luxury with fine Italian silk boxers caressing my lovely bum.

Interestingly, the images in my head rarely get onto print. I can't get them out. Mind you, I haven't found the perfect conditions and layout to get the mentalness (yeah that's right mentalness) of my mind into the annals of whatever. Nor am I all that slick with tech. So, the ideas stay rotting, languishing in this head spilling out from time to time in inappropriate places like funerals and the dinner table.

In any event, it takes so much time to think these suckers through. This is the best I could do so far: Moon Zuppa and The Warehouse

And of course this malfocused (that's right malfocused) bloghole.

I have to go buy toilet paper now.


  1. For a man of your taste in boxers, style can be purchased.

    I have a couple I am not using right now.

  2. Sigh. I guess. Know where I can buy some?

  3. I don't want to address you as "The Commentator". It's too formal and deferential. (Is that what you intend?) How about "Commie" or "Commy"? Will you answer to that? If not, what? Give me a nick I can handle, will you?

  4. Awright, awright: go with commy.

  5. That was too easy. I sense a trap.

  6. How about 'Commish'?

  7. Commish it is.

    No trap. I'm not a tactical mind.


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