This is sample text to remind me to type a blog posting for Friday, January 18. Remember to delete it when you get around to typing an entry.
If, however, you see this text on the blog, it means it was automatically posted and I forgot to actually write a post. If that happens, please notify the authorities immediately because it means one of several things:
1) I have "sampled" way too many of our beers and fallen asleep under my desk, thus failing to blog about anything. Actually, don't notify the authorities. I could use the sleep. I'll be fine.
2) My internet connection went down, my computer froze up, my smart-phone was dropped down a well, the public library was closed, and I left on a vacation. In that case, definitely don't notify the authorities. Or my mom. She'll just worry and I'm sure I'll be fine. I'll call when I get back. Really.
3) The much fantasized about Zombie-pocolypse has actually occurred. If so, I am out with a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, a machete in the other, a bandolier on my chest and I am slowly jogging away from the Zombies. It turns out that they really do move slowly, what with that re-animated tissue and all. Actually, if that has happened, don't worry about calling the authorities. You probably have better things to do right now, like put on a steel-reinforced helmet to protect your "BRAINS! . . . BRAINS! . . . BRAINS!"
4) I didn't take the time to type up anything because I completely bereft of ideas. It's surprising that I could even think of the word "bereft' in my depleted state, that is how bereft of ideas I am. Seriously, I'm feeling completely drained of witticisms, funny stuff, quips, come-backs, observations or wry notations. In which case, don't notify the authorities because they get kind-of pissed if you just call them because you are otherwise out of creative ideas. I know. I've done it more than once. Did you know that 911 can get a restraining order against you? I didn't.
5) I have been abducted by aliens who are intent on stealing super
secret information from me in a vain attempt to understand our human
culture. They can't figure out why the Kardashians pulled in $60 million last year. They can't figure out when Justin Bieber will come out of the closet. They can't figure out why no one has talked to Christina Aguilera about letting herself go. And they can't figure out why I was capable of
watching every single episode of Gilligan's Island over and over and
over, even the really bad ones like when the Harlem Globetrotters were
stuck on the island and . . . never mind. The authorities won't believe
your story. Unless you call Agent Scully. Feel free to send her.