a word on high from our sponsors

So. A little perspective is what's required.

Or merely what the doctor ordered. A little distance, certainly.

A respite from ill performed quackery, and the casting of runes;
the misdiagnosis of impertinent rubes. All manner of unsound
diviners. Pet rodents roiling on the stove. Scissors sixty-nining.
"Oh, you put a little picture there!" the anonymous voice crowed.
"You looked up a word. How clever."

On and on without pause. A harpy on my shoulder.

"Why can't you write about nice things," the voice continued.
Unquestioningly. Without dissent. A nagging reprobation,
a torn umbrella dripping from a branch, a diuretic toxin. On and
on, without pause. On and fucking on.

Woody Woodpecker sang with more variety. Even jabbing
his beak in where he had no call at all.

"You fuck. You sad fuck", the voice droned.

Not remotely antique, but creaking with menopausal infirmament.
An old testament notion of righteousness,
a chalk scraping on a blackboard made dark with skulking malice.

" Shut up!" it chanted.

A little unbelievably.

Well. I have been called a lot of things. I have been sad, it's true, and
known to fuck once in a while. In and out the sun. Without remorse.
But. Hear this, motherfucker.
If you don't like the banging - if the clanging of rusty metal implements
offends you - stay the fuck out of my kitchen.

My one regret, I might add - a little sadly - is tipping my glass;
a trifling prematurely.

Some of you may have already noticed, but unfortunately this blog no longer receives nor accepts anonymous comments. That, as politicians constantly remind us, is progress.

▼ PERE UBU: FINAL SOLUTION from "Final Solution b/w Cloud 149" 45 (Hearthan) 1976 (US)