For every blog post prior to this one, I sat down at the keyboard already knowing what I would write about. But this time I have nothing. Not even an inkling. Therefore, I'll do what I did in practically every email I sent home during my four years of college. Ladies and gentlemen, let's get ready to ramble.
Once I get going, I shouldn't lose my train of thought, though I may shift tracks so quickly others will say I've lost it. So let's leave this topic behind and shift to the topic of behinds. Brits call ours an arse, with that R thrust up in there, butt we Yanks are more apt to make a crack about having junk in the trunk, further yanking Brits' chains since they call their trunk a boot. And not a boot like Italy, which has always looked to me like it's tripping on Sicily and falling hip-first into southeast France, which is Nice. And not nice as in "oh, that's nice," but pronounced "niece," which by the way can also be a nickname for Denise, though I don't call Denise that because it's not nice. Instead I call her Denise, or Beautiful, or Mommy (if The Professor's nearby), but never Honey, since she may be sweet but she didn't get that way by being regurgitated by bees.
By the by, bees are stingy. And that's stingy, not sting-y, though of course they're sting-y, too. I mean, whenever I try to keep tidbits of pollen away from them, bees seize dese with ease, despite the fees. (Jeez, that was a bad bit, but bite me. I don't backtrack mid-ramble. That's a recipe for disaster, like if you completely leave the rum out of a Hurricane. Or if you leave the rum out in a hurricane, which isn't wise; the rum's gone and an angry Sparrow will chew your ears off.) Speaking of chewing ears, I'd rather speak of Ewing cheers, which aren't quite Bronx cheers since the Knickerbockers play their home games in Manhattan.1
Well, that'll do it. I do hope my muse has amused. Or bemused. Honestly, I'm equally happy with either outcome.2
1 Leave the rum out of a Manhattan, or it'll be too rummy when gin's supposed to be in the cards. And never leave the rum out in Manhattan, or an artful Dodger may steal it away to L.A.... and then you're back to the earlier ear-chewing scenario.
2 Oh, and the first person to make a crack about me being a ramblin' man will end up at the wrong end of a gun. After all, I'm just trying to make a living and doing the best I can.