Ok, since I don’t like to start out bitching, I wrote the following paragraph first, but am now prefacing it with this one, but, um, shit, ok, write about something else. Uh, almost 500 more words this weekend? Of the yes that. That which I discuss ever too much and do actual work on ever too little. That of which no more need be said and yet I say more anyway. Not that this is any better than that. Don’t take that as I’m complaining about my lack of skills cuz skills I do not lack, nor my lack of clients, as they are plenty, & good, and if you put my head on a pez dispenser I have a reasonable amount of confidence I would be far behind batman and spider-man, and, aye, even the ever lovin’ thing, but I feel assured that my sales figures would dwarf those of the martian manhunter and booster gold, shit, together, yes, I said it. Dammit, yes, I did.
Fuck, I’m fucking sick & it’s irritating me. Wait, let me backtrack. Ok, done already. There’s like a phlegm ball in my throat getting ready to take over the planet once it has thoroughly and synonym for said word decimated my oral cavity and beyond, aye, my whole body and possibly domicile, causing even the dead and or dying hopefully ethereal fleas on my loyal dog's back to do recurring somersaults of shame & degradation just in anticipation of the unleash of this vermin laced plague.
And wrap it all up with a heartfelt or not so much metaphorical cheap cliché, such as golf’s a beach, or, and that’s what’s going in the world today, and pass it on over to Frank at the sports desk.