No Content Kibitzing!

It's My Blog, And I'll Spat If I Want To...

OK, I understand that my foray into uncharted waters of a blog-tiff have some of you confused and perplexed. No, it's not what I usually do, and it probably won't be repeated. However, at the time, it seemed necessary and proper. Followups to AoM's site revealed that 'Anonymous' most likely WAS one of the Diva crew, and a certain 'Bama heffalump needs to just shut her yap before she digs a deeper hole.

Now, here's fair warning... Any more attempts (well intentioned or otherwise) to debate what I should or should not be doing on this blog will result in an immediate flood of Emily Dickinson poetry for a random length of time. If the griping gets real bad, I'll have to add a heavy dose of the timeless verse of Leonard Nimoy.

Here's a sample. Look upon her works, and despair!


A wounded deer leaps highest,
I've heard the hunter tell;
'Tis but the ecstasy of death,
And then the brake is still.

The smitten rock that gushes,
The trampled steel that springs:
A cheek is always redder
Just where the hectic stings!

Mirth is mail of anguish,
In which its cautious arm
Lest anybody spy the blood
And, "you're hurt" exclaim



I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth, -the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.



(Ick, hork, must...control... gag reflex...)
Now, don't make me go there again! Verstehen-zie, kameraden?