I don't know why I even bother...

You know, for the first eight months of the year, I posted very consistently. But then, curse my miserable fate, I noticed. Now I'm cramming, just to maintain a stupid streak on this stupid blog, because now I feel as if I must. Somebody help me, I'm going insane. Now if you're like me (and I'll bet a round chicken in a dumpling stew that you are) you're probably wondering by now where we're all going with this, and brother I'd be lying to you (that'll be the day!) if I were to say that I'm not very often wondering this selfsame thing, but let's not concern ourselves with such matters at present, goodness knows that worrying never hurt the worrisome, except for all the worrying. What am I talking about? I'm talking about good, cold, hard, American granite, with your name (and if you buy a big enough slab, that of your wife) carved on it for all of your posterity to visit once a year until they grow accustomed to your once-conspicuous absence. How much will it cost? Never you worry about that, think of it as an investment in a future without you in it. Now there, there, don't go running for your dear life until you've heard the best part: If you divide three elephants by fourteen vultures, that comes to just enough pachyderm fillet to make sure that nobody, and I mean nobody comes through that door unless they say the password, which as we all know is the last four stage directions for the Sugar Plum Fairy: "Dance, twirl, then dance some more, then get offstage you're killing Tchaikovsky." Just remember that one man's Jalopy is another man's Lincoln Continental, and one man's Lincoln Continental can very quickly become another man's Lincoln Continental, if the first man happens to leave the keys in it. I think that just about does it for now, I feel a strange urge to eat pumpkin pie, but as I haven't any (there was none in the Lincoln Continental I just stole), I suppose I'll have to make do without, and perhaps its for the best after all.