I am not dead. Or even, aside from a bit of irregularity, sick. Since I freely admit to falling a bit short of meeting either of the aforementioned conditions, you may wonder why no blaming in over a week. Well, I’ll tell you. I do not have, at the moment (or, some would say, ever), anything of consequence to add to the discourse. In other words, I’ve come down with writer’s block.
In fact, if I think about one more rape case, one more teen porn movie, one more pink power drill, one more ‘humanist’ dude commenter — let alone spend the morning writing about it — my obstreperal lobe will burst into flames. As you know, this would take out everything and everyone within a 23 mile radius of the Twisty Compound, and all the Cool Whip in the world won’t fix that. The lobe to which I allude is an alien implant, and highly unstable. It has been smoldering for 6 months, baffling specialists.
If only it would stop raining. Crapulently, thanks to the megaglobalwarmingocracy, such a contingency is remote. Nevertheless I hold out some small hope that vitamin D production might one day recommence in the Twisty protoplasm. And on the spectacular day when the sun once again condescends to emit its toxic radiation upon the Hill Country, my friends, so speedy a mad dash to the kiddie pool by a spinster aunt carrying a Thermos of margaritas and a dragonfly field guide will seldom have been witnessed by Central Texans regardless of race, creed, or color.
Anyway, please accept this robber fly, seen here sating its bloodlust with a bee, as a small token of my undeadness.