Making excuses

It's what we do best; it's what I do best; it's the only way to live life without feeling perpetual guilt, frustration and despair. A bout of shame occasions fitting apologia.

Not having provided any meaningful content to this blog in several weeks [if ever], I anticipate mounting fraternal discord - luckily, I know just the remedy.

Choosing an interesting or exciting topic for discussion is never easy, and it's made even less so by the lack of anonymity. Cloaked as I am by the lugubrious depths of the internet, I am not protected from the "slings and barbs of outrageous four-ternals." By which I mean my dear family.

If I write something stupid, my family will let me know...or merely sneer behind my back.[which is easier to take, mind you] Ok, maybe not this particular family, but you can certainly imagine 'family' doing that sort of thing. In any case, at the very least, I'll suffer some well-placed jibes and patronizing swipes as I'm informed of poor grammar and punctuation. No doubt these well-intentioned insults will dissuade me from any intellectual endeavour, such as a blog.

So, I blame YOU, dear, supportive family, for my predicament. Misery loves company, so I'll try to make things more bearable for you and lash out some more.

I blame the proliferation of the internet. It's unfair. In the good old days only a few privileged [lucky] people could read or write, and even fewer got published. Those were the days of crowning literary glory BY GOD!!! Back then you could write just about anything and it would be 'original'; but today, there are a million people pontificating on the sujet du jour, and a million more with opinions on obscurities that would make a pedant blush.

Today a person can pen the most fallacious, farcical, ridiculous and far-fetched theory unimaginable, and merely count himself as a grain of sand on a beach of obstinate stupidity. Who will judge when literary precedence becomes clouded by an avalanche of experts and brilliant amateurs alike? Who then will decide which is the original and which the blatant act of plagiarism? [as I write this I periodically raise my left fist in muted homage]

In this competitive atmosphere what hope do I, jaded observer that I am, have, loyal reader? These thoughts, and many more of equal, massy portent, slowly drained all initiative from my brain. My faculties were blurred, my morale plummeted. Would I write about the passing of Al Zawahiri, or rant about Iran's nuclear program? As I considered these options, and many more of more dubious quality, I realized I had no intention of being anybody's echo. [left fist raised] Anything that can be said has already been said, I'm sure. [or something to that effect]

I realized, then and there, that only an explanation could wipe the perceived failure from my mind. These hastily arranged words must speak volumes in my defence: they must tell of my moral fastidiousness in avoiding subjects too often trampled by the herd of pundits. They must assuage doubts: doubts that I am anything less than the best when it comes to identifying the most pertinent ripples effected by Zawahiri's downward fall into a lake of hellfire, doubts that I am anything less than the avatar of wit and cunning wordplay, doubts that I had anything but the most honourable intentions to write as much and often as possible.

In this climate of fear, retribution, and, unfortunately, merit, I must, first and foremost, be at peace with myself. When I consider the obstacles overcome and the preservation of my literary integrity, I must come to the conclusion that I have triumphed.[left fist raised one last time]