It is a very difficult thing to not blog about the one topic that is on everyone’s mind these days. To write about anything else is deemed by some to be inappropriate and irreverent.
Well, that pretty much sums up my life so far, so why change now?
So, if you’re looking for something to read that’s not related to … you know what … then you’ve come to the right place.
Just try not to touch anything.
Reports of My Dearth are Right On Target
It has been a good week in Biffville (Population: cloistered). Yesterday I submitted a report that I had been working on for some time. I estimate that I put about 100 hours into generating it. It was mind-bogglingly complex and thorough. It left no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored, and no depth unplumbed. It pulled together data from innumerable sources and wove them together in a rich tapestry of Byzantine minutia.
And, best of all, it succeeded at the ultimate goal of any report.
No, not clarity.
Not clear direction.
No, it was successful at completely stunning my audience into submission, resulting in no questions and no follow-on action items for me. They all looked like blank-eyed, gaping carp after someone threw a stick of dynamite in their pond.
I then did the corporate equivalent of dropping the mic.
I said “All right then … I’ll take your silence as concurrence.”
I then clicked on the “Leave Meeting” icon of the on-line meeting.
Preparing to Repair to the Repair
Yesterday I had to put my car in the shop.
It was nothing serious. Just an oil change and a tune up and tire rotation and a brake job.
It seems odd to me that, no matter what I take my car into the shop for, I end up getting an oil change, a tune-up, a tire rotation, and a brake job.
“Hank,” I always say in that blithe, bonhomie way that is my trademark. “I notice the glove box sticks a little when I try to open it to put my gloves and riding crop in it.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Biff,” says Hank. “We’ll take a look at it.”
I then get a call about two hours later from Hank who delivers the bad news with a voice not unlike a doctor on a hospital soap opera telling someone in a waiting room that “we’ve done all we can do.” He tells me that I need an oil change, a tune up, a tire rotation, and a brake job. We are both sobbing on each shoulders by this time, with me saying, “But it was so young!” and him patting me on the back and saying, “I know. I know.”
This time was different, however. When I drove up, Hank was dressed as if he were about to do an asbestos abatement project in a basement full of radon gas. He spoke to me from a bull horn from 50 paces. “Drop your keys in the bucket!” he yelled.
“But the bucket is like 20 yards away,” I complained (yelling, so he could hear me).
“Just toss it!” he yelled through the bull horn. “Its full of bleach. The keys won’t be hurt!”
I did as he instructed and, I’m proud to say … nothing but bucket from outside the 3.
“Now get out of the car slowly,” he said. “Keep your hands in the air so you don’t touch anything else.”
I did as told, moving slowly so as not to cause any angst.
“Now back away from the car slowly. And we need you to breathe in a south-easterly direction, away from the garage.”
Again, I did as I was told.
“Good job,” he yelled through the bull horn.
He then patted me on the back using a 20 foot barge pole.
I always thought that was just an expression.
The Apostate Apostrophe Atrophy
What kind of blogger would I be if I didn’t mention that today is April Fools’ Day?
Worse still, what sort of pedantic, nit-picking, punctilious prig would I be if I didn’t point out the the fools referred to in the title of the day is, in fact, the plural possessive form? That is: FOOLS‘. (With the lagging apostrophe, you see.)
In other words, the day belongs to multiple fools at the same time, collectively. In that sense, it is kind of like a time-share condominium.
And, like a time-share condo, it is a day possessed, not by a single fool, but by a multitude of fools. One could even say ALL of the fools, for once you add that final apostrophe there’s really know way of knowing how many fools we’re really talking about.
The trouble starts when said fools start trying to figure out how to divide up the day amongst themselves. Who gets the good bits? Who gets the not-so-good bits? Who gets the drumstick? And who gets the parson’s nose? (Or is it parsons’ nose? Or noses? Who knows?)
And that is why it is called April Fools‘ Day.
Because only fools believe that a single thing can be possessed by multiple people without a brawl ensuing.
So enjoy your day. Or whatever part of it you can manage to wrest from the hands of the fools.
I’m going in for the drumstick myself.