People are fucking weird

No, this isn't the beginning of a Seinfeldesque rant about foibles.

I mean simply to say that all of you are absolutely out to fucking lunch.

I'd stated before that I'm a solipsist. Then I recanted. Well now I'm re-stating, or, er, un-canting.

I'd love to say that I mean everyone except my family, friends, and local blog community. But I mean all y'alls.

Smartass asks, "If you're a Solipsist, why bother explaining yourself? Why bother even blogging?"

Well, Smarass, it's to entertain the voices in my head - so that you all will quiet down for a while. I mean, I know that you all go into cold storage when I'm not thinking about you or talking to you. I know this. But sometimes I get confused and pretend that you are all real people.

You see, Mr. Cruise and I are onto something. We've both realized that we're not crazy - it's the rest of you. So stop making me hit myself. I'll tell you a bedtime story if you promise to stop.

"Once upon a time there was a King. A King of Mediocrity. Unlike Midas, everything he touched turned... well, to the middle of the bell-curve, anyway. He didn't live on the street, but he had house-envy.

One recent day, he had an epiphany! He realized that it was much more fulfilling to post whatever the fuck was on his mind.

It turned out that there was very little on his mind, but he managed to fill page after page with crap. This made the King quite happy. He could even say things like 'Numer nine... number nine... number nine... number nine... number nine...' indefinately. It was quite mediocre, to be sure, but the grass is always greener, yadda, yadda, yadda.

[I told me to stop hitting me, dammit.]

The K.O.M. suddenly realized that he had run out of gas, and that the post that he was writing should draw to a close. It made him laugh to think that it had no reason to exist, and moreso that it made no sense.

The laughs of the King made flowers grow, poop shine and castrati sing alto."

The fucking end. Off to bed with you.