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So Does This Make It Better… or Worse?

Well, that wasn’t much of a blogging day, now, was it?

Really, I just posted two updates — sure, it ended up being a few hundred words when you add ’em all up, but it’s not really a proper ‘post’, in my normal style. Barely any of those words were ‘asshat’, or ‘spootmuffin’, or even ‘jackbaggery. (Whatever the hell that is.)

And I can see I’ve let you down. Please, don’t give me the ‘pouty face’; you know I can’t bear to see the pouty face…

Oh, there it is! The pouty face! Damn, damn, damn, damn… have a fricking heart, will ya?

Look, I know it hurts. And I could make excuses — I’ve actually had to pay attention at work lately, and I’ve been so busy this week in the evenings that I’m just exhausted, and with just one contact lens, I really can’t see the part of the world that’s on the right side of my nose — but these are just excuses. They can’t mend a broken heart. They can’t wash away a pouty face.

A little plastic surgery, now that might do it. A nip here, a tuck back there, and you might just manage to ‘get the pout out’.

Heh. ‘Get the pout out’. That’s fun!

Get the pout… out yo’ snout! Get the pout… out ya’ snout! Hey-ey, ho-oh, hey-ey, ho-oh.

Canyoudigit, Icandigit, hecandigit, shecandigit… theycandigit, wecandigit, Icandigit, youcandigit — get the pout out yo’ snout!

Woo! Yeah! Yeah! Whoooo hoo! Now that was fun! I —

Whaaaaaat? You’ve stiiiiiiill got the pouty face? Fer chrissakes, now you’re just being difficult. There’s a word for people like you, you know.

Poopenheimers, that’s what. Big fat pouty-snouted poopenheimers. Fine. Be that way. I don’t care.

Okay, look, I didn’t mean that. Of course I care if you still have a pouty face. Let’s get that widdle pouty-wouty face all taken care of, okay? We’ll make him all better now, yes we will!

(All right, look — this is just getting silly. Does this count as a post yet? Can I just cut my losses here and call it a night? Look at this shit — it’s ridiculous.

What? There’s gotta be an ‘ending’? It’s gotta wrap everything up, and make sense of it all? Are you friggin’ nuts? Have you been paying attention to this? There’s ‘pouty faces’ and plastic surgeons, and… and some sort of weird Shaft music thing going on back there… I can’t wrap all that up in one neat little package! Seriously, ‘pouty-snouted poopenheimers‘? Come on!

Oh, look, fine, I’ll get back out there and write some more… but I can’t promise anything. There’s no getting out of this mess, dude. It’s just one big clusterfuck out there.)

Oh, um… hi. Sorry about that. Just having a little chat with the, um, management. Everything’s fine… just fine. Everything’s just peachy. So, um, back to the post, then. How’s that ‘pouty face’ coming along?

Oh, still there, I see. More or less, anyway — it looks a little puckerier than before. Have you been sucking a lemon or something to keep that pout going? Are you pout doping? ‘Cause that’s just wrong. You’ll never get onto the Poutolympics squad doing that crap, that’s for sure.

(Look, I tried, all right? No, it’s not getting any better out there. I just made up the ‘Poutolympics’ — what the hell does that mean, anyway? Seriously, I’m begging you, just let me go to bed, all right? I’ll go back out there and say good night, and then I’ll just call it a day, and make it up to them tomorrow. How’s that?

I’ve still got to have an ending?! Oh, fer the love of peanut oil wrestling — really? You sure? It’s in the contract?

*sigh* Fine. I’ll go find a way to end this. Jeez, the shit I have to do to keep this site rolling…)

Hey. Me again. Sorry about that — just a little interlude there. And sorry about that whole ‘Poutolympics’ thing earlier. Clearly, that was from out in left field — I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Just assume I was momentarily drunk, or talking gibberish, or channeling some idiotic douchebag ghost for a minute. Really, I don’t know what the hell happened.

But now, in just a sweet simple sentence or two, I’m gonna wrap all of this up. It’ll all make sense, and be funny, and you’ll be chuckling over it for days. Really, it’ll be a hoot. Maybe a hoot and a half. (At the very least, a hoot and a quarter. Certainly.)

So, I’ll just walk over here near the door, while I… prepare to tell you… alllll about how I’m gonna… wrap this up, and I’ll… RUN! Gotta go! Sleepytime! So sorry; don’t hold it against me! Just be sure to lock up when you leave! G’night, everybody!