I would like to issue a formal apology to my loyal readership. It has recently come to my attention that I have not posted anything to this blog in nearly a month. I feel compelled to write something regarding this oversight, but therein lies the problem. What to write? If I knew the answer to this question I surely would have written something worthwhile by now. Indeed, I would have written a post of such astounding wit and social insight that it would have caught like wildfire across the great expanse of the ethereal electronic spiderweb we call “the internet,” and propelled me into instant fame and a multimilliondollar book deal.
The post would be a combination of commentary regarding Donald Trump’s hair, annoyingly small dogs, and my confusion over ketchup bottles. I would weave my words in a way that brought tears of laughter and sadness in equal measure. Readers would simply be unable to turn away. It would be the Infinite Jest of the blogosphere.
But then, I would be responsible for the consequences of such a powerful piece of writing. I would have to make sure that it didn’t fall into the wrong hands, for the wrong reasons (which, by the way, would be exceedingly difficult, given that this is a public blog). I would wrestle night and day with the fact that my writing had reduced innocent people to empty husks of their former selves. I would probably develop an unhealthy drinking problem.
I would have to learn to brush my hair on a regular basis, as this is probably important if I were going to be meeting with the world’s most important leaders. They would recruit me to write other things as well, or simply plead with me not to write anything at all. The power of my writing would be such that I could cure the world of all its problems or destroy it with a few taps on the keyboard.
Nations would come together in solidarity under the united cause of ridding the world of this new threat. They would track me down and throw me in a little white cell in a deep underground bunker and throw away the key. That is, if they could find me. Maybe I’d have to have a sex change operation and grow a beard and live in the remotest little cabin somewhere in the great Canadian wilderness. That would be really lonely. But at least I wouldn’t have to shower and brush my hair on a regular basis.
After a few decades, the world’s leaders would be convinced that I was no longer a threat, seeing as how I’d hidden myself so thoroughly and had made no attempt at using my power for evil. They’d call off the hunt, but I wouldn’t know it. I’d be so well hidden that I had no contact with the outside world. I would have used that uninterrupted time to compose my masterpiece. It would be a work of such staggering beauty and depth that no English-speaking person would be immune to it. And thanks to my four years of Spanish in high school, our southern neighbors might even have a little trouble coping as well.
Because of my superior hiding skills, I wouldn’t know that the world had moved on. And so in an act of terrible revenge, I would mail my awesome masterpiece to all the most important politicians (and I’m using the word “awesome” in its original context here). They would unwittingly read the manuscript, unaware of what it was, and be rendered fully incapacitated.
With all the key government officials suddenly turned to living vegetables, the whole country would descend into a morass of chaos and incivility. And it would be all my fault.
So, in the end, it’s probably a good thing I’ve been ignoring this blog and not really trying very hard to write anything of consequence.