WordWench

Spencer enters the room, his face shrouded by a heat shield he recently inherited. He looks across the room seeking what he did not know. Then he found it or rather she. His darling Miss Tansey, the first true friend he’d ever had. She was his eighth grade English teacher. It astounds me to this day — the man was almost 15 years old and his friend list was empty. His space is still occupied with thoughts, both literary and historic. Not trivial halllooooo’s. He is on day twelve of a thirty day stint at the Home for the Artistically Obscure.
As of late, his daily dowhats have exceeded his spatial capacity. Inundated with crass advertising and immune to disease, he is nonetheless confused.

Back to the hand at day.

“Miss Tansey! How precious of me to see you. What is here, did it bring you? Oh sorry me, you have flustered my space. Tsk Tsk Entering my space unannounced. How wilt thou?” He seizes the elderly woman by the ankles and flips her upside down. She claps and giggles.

A farrier enters the room, shoeless, followed by an avatar of amazing proportions. “Okay, you silly squab, put her down. She bears no ill will. And if she did, you wouldn’t find it that way, now would you?” the farrier asks Spencer before turning to the avatar and saying, “Yer a made up word, ya’ know. Go back to them interneted tubes, ya rube. A webpage is a terrible thing to waste.”

The avatar slinks sideways toward the bar, “Give me a tab, please?” she asks the bartender who, in turn, asks “Do you want a head on it?”

Spencer steps up to the plate — it’s asparagus filled — and announced to the assemblage, “I am deeply disheartened. Disambiguous to the potential in which I am allowed. The World Wide Web is merely a series of connected computers. Driven by inarticulate goofs who cannot write and who are propelled by advertising revenue…” He begins to rip the pages out of The Voice of the Turtle, a comedy in three acts by John van Druten.

“Not quite, youngish middle-aged man, those are just the blogs. You can find purity amidst the other Internets.” The avatar raises her Tab can high above her head. “Some of us exist just for the pleasure of creating art. We are information driven… or artistically bent. Try us.”

Everyone in the room laughs. Miss Tansey finds her voice, the old lady in the garden had it. Then Spencer found his soul. It was behind the couch all the time, playing Kemps with Jesus. “Many blogs are insincere. Filled with paid promotionals which send readers to other websites. What we do here on Frog Level Road is to blog our fictional excesses and pander to our inside voices. Revenue be damned!”

So, Spencer and dear Miss Margaret, Cook, Allistair Crowdley, and the rest — yes, even Mother — must return online and live in an advertiser-less blog. Just for the hell of it. Just because it’s fun to blog.

… because they ain’t selling out. Someone must write a link-less blog. It must exist! It must!

But you can find some really cool advertising links and messages, website reviews and wonderment on our sister-site: macewan.org.