Tuesday, February 6, 2018

A long overdue apology

I went to pick up some drugs the other day.

My wife had caught this nasty bug that's going around so I volunteered to stop at the Rite Aid to pick up her package of semi-narcotic goodies. Particularly since the package included some codeine-fortified cough medicine.

Mmmmm, false euphoric confidence.

In any case, while waiting for the druggist to fill the order, I spied a brand spanking new blood pressure machine. I always love to throw my arm in the mechanical tourniquet and give it a whirl. Mostly because the numbers are always great -- 121/79, or something in that proximity.

On this occasion, it wasn't. I know the reason why.
I think we all do.

Which brings me to my apology.

I am not without any self awareness. And I know that I have been spending a good deal of time on this blog, on twitter and on Facebook, making comments, making memes and making myself heard in this fucking dark period of our nation's history. Furthermore, I know I've been abusing my social media privileges.

Hell, sometimes I get tired of hearing my own voice on the matter of Captain Fucknuckle.

While I'd like to apologize, I'd also like to offer up a weak argument in my defense.

You see, as someone who makes a living by putting words on paper -- more accurately, a computer screen -- I, and freelance copywriters throughout the land, spend an inordinate time in our Herman Miller ergonomic chairs staring at what you're staring at right now.

I'm not complaining, it beats shoveling shit, washing pots in a hospital kitchen or driving a forklift in Compton, California, all previously held jobs.

Here's a little occupational secret, good writing requires lots of good non-writing.

And by that, I mean we live or die by our distractions. Some writers will knit on the side. Others will pick up a guitar between spurts of inspiration. Me? I like to pick rhetorical fights with clueless khaki-pants wearing cretins who often don't know the difference between their there's and their they're's.

It gets my juices going. It keeps me razor sharp. And in a circuitous way, it puts food on my table and inches me that much closer to a brand new Audi S5 with the supercharged engine and the Heads Up Display.

What does all this mean?

It means I'm sorry for being so relentless. So prodigious. And so outspoken about the diseased sack of yak shit that is currently residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave..

Does it mean I plan to stop?

It doesn't.


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