Outrospection

I have needs, people.

I need excitement, dammit. I need to be overloaded with swirling information and inundated with chaos of the most unlikely, improbable kind; I need for fury to shoot me through the dayglo-tunnel of optimism into a heaven of opposing, colliding viewpoints, a crucible of verbal-violence in which grammar-policing snapdragon-sentries breathe fear and swallow weakness; I need to be swept up in the maelstrom of life with a shit-eating grin and a full compliment of readymade snappy-retorts and witty-comebacks with which to confront and contaminate all that does and ever will exist under the sun’s unblinking, judgmental eye.

Michael has needs, too: he needs contentment.

Super.

I, personally, have nothing against contentment, for the most part: if that’s your bag, dig it, daddy-o. However, if you’re going to write about your contentment every day in a blog that I’m scheduled to review, well, then I have a problem. Contentment = FUCKING BORING. Like, vanilla-shake-boring. Sure, it’s hard to rip on a guy who does this for a living and who seems like an all-around decent human being, but, folks, I’m a professional, so worry not: you’re in good hands.

Introspection is like masturbation in that it’s not particularly enjoyable unless you’re the one in the driver’s seat. It can be downright painful if extended over the two-year life of a blog, and, unfortunately, that does indeed seem to be the case here. You have to understand, Mike, that "heck" to a preternaturally profane dude such as myself tastes like dish-detergent on a blueberry-muffin, and I’m far too delightfully frenzied to be calmed by the calming calmitude of your calminess, so, for me, Nutjobber, your intrepid reviewer, reading this blog is like shaking salt into my eye-sockets.

I’ll tell you what, though, gang: the man can take a picture, sho ‘nuff, and he’s got some skills, some solid chops, but he’s not going to tear my ass up with his writing; some wouldn’t count that as a strike against him, but I think I’ve established that I’m a pretty visceral cat who likes things a wee bit more interesting. Let me put it another way: Mike would probably give me a killer backrub, but he ain’t setting my hair on fire. If I had hair, that is. Whatever - you get my point.



Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are some children next door who need to be taught how to stay the fuck off of ol’ Nutjobber’s fence.