Grand March

I surfed by this blog a couple of days ago and heard a devil-of-a-noise coming from its content; much like a “clanking” or “chink, chink, chinking.”  At first, I thought maybe Funny Bone Laugh Lines was replaying the NCAA Men’s Basketball Championship game between Butler and UCONN to which each of their shots bricked off the rim causing the round cylinder to have intense episodes of hiccups that could only be cured if the players held their talent and instead ink another tattoo on their arm.  Apparently, this had not been the case because in so doing it would have required the use of TiVo which this site does not obtain the assistance of such a technical device.  Its monthly budget does not allow for this luxury.  Perhaps, I should have taken a garbage dumpster, tipped it upside down and trashed this place with thousands of ads—because all those endorsements and ALL that commercialized clutter would have paid for itself-obviously.  With that being said, turn your online windshield wipers to “high” because the sarcasm is coming down in sheets and according to MY radar more is on the way…  And the noise first described in the introduction was that of this blog typing up its own obituary due to the lack of material presented. 

With Prom season high on the batting order, I thought it was both fitting and proper that I title this reading as I did.  My intention is to compose this made-from-scratch passage, follow the recipe precisely, add a few secret spices that Julia Child left in the pantry and have it flare a punch that exclaims “Down goes Frazier!  Down goes Frazier!” to the following class of society’s birth defect:

People who make a scene each time they enter a room need to be redirected to Priceline.com and purchase a one-way ticket to this section in cyberspace where I can proceed to mop the floors of Funny Bone Laugh Lines with their personas and nickname them Mr. Clean.  Unaware that we’re living in a real-life day time drama, the red carpet even rolled its eyes at this person and delegated the job of cushioning the walkway to another.  I’ve decided that a side gig could profit my bank account so I have accepted the position of being the floor mat to these folks; my booty was dedicated at birth to be a collage of footsteps by the so-called “Queen Latifahs and grown versions of the “Sweet Baby Jesus’” of the world.  With this action in mind, please forgive my unwillingness to rise respectfully to your LIVE appearance; contrary to one’s thinking, it is not due to the fact that my legs were not familiarized beforehand with your “Title” in life—ultimately leading my limbs to be friendly as a DMV employee.  If you’d like, I can multi-task and play “Look At What the Cat Drug In” as the soundtrack in Dolby Surround sound to prime the moment of gracing us with your presence.  Unfortunately,it is with sorrowful remorse that I inform of the paparazzi ‘s absence.  To my knowledge, they were ecstatic on arriving; however, the flash bulbs to their cameras are currently on a collective bargaining agreement much like the NFL’s.  Your fan base fell apart like a Southwest Airline plane as wedding-like invitations which had been sent requesting to gravel at your feet were returned with a big VETO across them looking like the Final Four pics belonging to Obama.  Apparently, being in your presence is like attaining a bad cold that takes a tour—like Brittney Spears—through the body for weeks on end.  You think that your demeanor is as refreshing as a bottle of White Diamonds perfume from Elizabeth Taylor, but your scent couldn’t even be accepted as a charity gift to a person of poverty level.  Subtly you come to open check-out lanes and sing “Innie, Minnie, Miny, Moe” calling attention to yourself and the many purchases your about to walk with out of the store.  Thanks for stimulating the economy.  Your ONE item investment can finally bring the business out of the red.  Hopefully it didn’t break your budget too badly.  Doormen were wise to strike and choose to be unemployed as opposed to making your entrances more convenient.  I’m sure that they long for the moments to swing open the doors of your constantly late arrivals.  As a matter of fact, I believe that the only entries that open for you are the handicapped accessible, and even those don’t bow voluntarily without a push of a button. 

I could go on and on, but my hand is cramped from the cranking of this subject over the rotisserie, but there’s enough meat on this bone exhibited in the blog to slice, reserve for leftovers and possibly make a sandwich or two from it. In conclusion, I make reference to Julia Child one last time as I say, “Bon Appetit!”