I’ve been meaning to do for this for some time.
It’s occurred to me that I may not be for everyone (and I don’t mean just Mrs. Penwasser).
I mean, you could be searching for the inspiration of a Blog of Note (won’t find it here) or a tastefully rendered piece on the joys of raising rescue animals. Indeed, you may seek guidance on mending a broken marriage or how to make a killer bean dip using only the contents of your pantry.
Instead, you blunder into a man sitting on a curbside toilet.
Transfixed, as if watching a train wreck, you continue to read, figuring it can’t get much worse than pictures of Chaz Bono. Oh, but it can. There’s always a shot or two of Anthony Weiner.
Then, just when you think it can’t get any worse, bang!, me with no shirt on.
So, for making you throw up in your mouth, mea culpa (Latin for “my bad”).
|"Verily, Hezekiah, would thee care to |
help me kick Penwasser's ass?"
|"How many of you even knew my first name was 'Gugliemo'? |
That's what I thought. Screw you and Edison."
NOTE: I did consider giving you links to all the above. But, then I thought, screw it, that’s a lot of frikkin’ work. Besides, who’d take the trouble to read them all? Certainly not the French. They’re all on vacation or protesting the right to wear Speedos on American beaches. Oops, there I go again.
I must say that, in all cases, I was merely having fun and didn’t mean any harm.
|When "Pull-My-Finger" |
goes horribly awry.
Which, I know, sounds like such a lame, bogus excuse. Imagine if, say, Hitler had said, “Gee, you know, that whole blitzkrieg thing was just a goof. Why’s everybody so bent out of shape?”
Nobody would buy it. Even with Obama money (NOTE: My first poke at the President).
But, in my case, I absolutely mean it.
Especially when it comes to Iran. Those spooky dudes really scare the crap out of me.
|"Oh, yeah? Just for that, our women |
won't shave their pits and our cheese will smell like feet."
So, for what I’ve done and for the ribbing I plan on doing, mea maxima culpa (Latin for “my big ass bad.” Although, the Romans probably never said “ass.” Except in the livestock sense. Or when talking smack about the Gauls. Who were-you guessed it-French).
|The world ended, but not this guy|
I’d also like to issue a preemptive apology for the upcoming reduced frequency of Penwasser Place in the year 2012 (as opposed to “the movie” 2012, a real buzz-kill of a flick about the end of the world, but not the end of John Kusack).
As you know, I’ve begun a book about my time in the Navy called, It’s Not Just a Job. Planned to be an almost 30-year memoir, I’ve barely made it past the first year.
I can attribute this less-than-blazing speed due to sloth, my job, and the fact that I really enjoy writing in Blogger and, more importantly, reading your posts.
But, mostly sloth.
As a result, I’m going to limit my time here to a couple times a week. That way, I hope to make some headway on my book before my grandchildren have to finish it while I’m banging my head with a mallet at the rest home.
I don’t want to do it, but like bestiality laws, some things are necessary (especially in West Virginia).
Finally, I’d like to request forgiveness in the event anything you read here isn’t the very finest comedy money can buy. Because, after all, your m...what? You’re not paying? Well, you can forget any money-back guarantee.
If you want to yuk it up, go to Comedy Central. Or C-Span.
I can’t hit home runs all the time. There is the chance that, one day (hopefully not today), you’ll read one of my posts and think, my God this sucks!
Then, you’ll go play Strip Jenga with the neighbors.
Unless they’re from Iran.
Then I’d keep my clothes on.