133. one year later

It’s uncanny how anniversaries seem to come forward from the foggy dark graveyard of memory and into the crisp light of consciousness. It dawned on me today that my bloggerversary was getting close. In fact, it’s March 29. How about that?  My internal alarm clock/calendar was starting to vibrate ever so slightly, like it must inside the groundhog Punxsutawney Phil. So, I think it’s only right to stop on this solemn occasion and reckon, reckon, wreck-on. My statistics tell me that 1,802 hits have occurred over this time span, although I can’t really grasp that. I know folks tell me that they’ve read the blog, but the number count remains at zero some days. Also, I’ve had hits from foreign countries, like Croatia and Thailand. I assume that these were fishy get rich quick schemers who don’t even read English. I’m pretty sure that my tiny base of support is in the USA, mostly folks I know locally. With the average post being 1,000 words each, I have blogged over 131,000 words in this year. As I told my buddy Chuckles, “That’s a lot of flatulence.”  [Actually, now that I’m thinking of it, Chuckles, have you even hooked up the Paleolithic computer system I gave you?]

So what is the gain of a year’s worth of blogging?  About two pounds of paper now that it’s all printed out. You could start a nice fire with that much paper. At least 130  hours translated into sentences. That’s a long unpaid vacation, man. And what else? Well, in all those hours I was not doing anything else, better or worse; so depending on your valuation of the blog posts, you may look at this as a good use of time or a waste. I assume if you are reading post 133, though, that you don’t believe it’s a waste or else you enjoy wasting time. So which is it, Blog Wart? [Again, Chuckles, did you even plug it in yet?]

On the long cold winter days blogging has kept me warm and preoccupied. Another plus. And I have been able to wander through the airport terminal that is my mind. Lots of baggage and people and drama in there. Sometimes a gunfight breaks out as unruly sleep deprived passengers from Dayton fight with cheery, upright Minnesotans on their way to Disney World. In fact, I’ve written about so many things, I need an index to make sure I don’t repeat a previous post or a goofy allusion, such as the airport image above. Yeah, blogging has probably saved my life and many others. Maybe I should run for Congress. I have nearly perfected the fictionalized version of reality for public consumption routine. [Chuckles, write this down… Well who’s fault is that?]

“I was born naked and bald headed, illiterate and incapable. Speechless to boot. I was raised by wolves and an otter in the frozen tundra of Northern Saskatchewan, on the River of No Deposit No Return. Fortunately I was born in the summer so I did not freeze to death immediately. I did not even have a pair of bootstraps to pull myself up by until I wandered into a settlement of loggers and gold miners one day when I was 14. I was still naked but sort of furry by then. I’d taught myself to speak with an app on a cell phone that I found in the wilderness. Before the battery died, I had learned to say “Help Me Please” and “Coca Cola”.

“Lucky for me that there was a visiting film crew making a documentary about educationally stunted children in the outer districts of Canadian provinces. When they got a look at me, they knew they had an entire season of documentaries staring back at them through wild, canine wise eyes.

“Civilization problems soon erupted. I needed a birth certificate in order to be declared a citizen of Canada and qualify for free health care and a hair cut. One of the guys on the film crew was from Detroit. He said he had connections back home and getting a birth certificate was simple. He knew neighbors who had two and three of them and collected small fortunes from government handouts. He smuggled me across the border in a duffel bag with floatation foam in it to keep me afloat.  Before you know it, I was a clean shaven American citizen with a birth certificate. However, when we tried to re-cross the border legally, we were told that I was not permitted to work in Canada due to child labor laws that prevented abandoned Native people raised by wolves to be further exploited by folks in Ontario. I know, it’s hard to believe how silly some bureaucrats can be.

“So I grew up in Michigan and soon caught up with my grade level studies. Whenever I didn’t know something, I’d simply growl as my wolf parents had taught me and that seemed to work well. At other times my otter heritage helped me make friends and get free drinks at taverns as I barrel rolled among barstools. Too many free drinks, as it turned out. Still, I felt a higher calling for purpose in my life. I wanted to give back to the very people who had abandoned me along the banks of the No Deposit No Return River, now 32 years ago. ( Time flies in blog years.) One day at the local noon AA meeting, Ralph shared.

“I’m Ralph and I’m your congressman. I have been for forty years now, and yeah, not many of those were sober, but no one in Washington is sober, so sue me. Anyway, I’ve decided to retire from the graft and kickback circus, and I need an understudy so the show can keep going. You know, I want to groom someone like me, treat him like a son. I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, but this is one good thing I want to do, y’know, for my legacy.

“In a rare moment of clarity I realized that greatness was about to be thrust upon me because there were only four of us at the noon meeting– Stan was older than Ralph and Louise is a 50 year old bartender at the Legion who has no teeth. So I figured Ralph had to be thinking about me.”

To be continued


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