March 1st, 2007
Salvete, dear readers!
Another month is upon us, and the harsh, albeit rational, cold of the winter winds still sweeps across this oblong excuse for a country. And speaking of poor excuses, you lot claim to constitute the literary avant-garde, but I have yet to hold proof of this twixt the elegant digits of my well-shaped hands. Where are all the contributions I was promised? Where are all the short stories and the brilliant lines of poetry?
Every day I append myself to the “inter-web” and peruse the contents of my “mailbox in the ether”, as it were, but though I always do so, naïvely expecting to read volumes of genius courtesy of my own, personal, and dare I say loyal, reader corpus, I have been continuously disappointed this past month. But I am not one to fret, so I shall expect you to compensate me for this heinous wrongdoing so that the next issue of Roderick Popplestone’s Arbitrary Collection will be more capacious than this one.
In the meantime, however, I would like to add that I have, in my own ingenious way, hypothesised a great deal and come up with what I consider to be a most plausible theory as to the cause of the February drought. It’s a two-parter and goes as follows:
First of all, one must take into consideration the undeniable fact that February is somewhat discriminated in that it is in reality the shortest month of the year. Thus, you ridiculous plebeians have not had as much time to gather what few and meagre grey cells you may posses in order to compose texts that by most publishers could be construed as being works of art, but that in most cases would receive far more pejorative labels by me.
Secondly, it has been a rather cold month, hasn’t it? And, given this dreadful cold, I gather you’ve been quite preoccupied with running about the place, building snow castles and eating infant field mice that would have survived, had the climate been slightly more favourable. Your delight in taking part in the latter, by the way, I choose to take for granted as being the result of you being as inbred as can be, as well as due to your complete and utter lack of class, sophistication and – let’s face it – money.
Let’s hope March is a bit warmer, shall we, so that you both/either starve to death and/or send me more of your delightful texts. I’m not keeping a staff of editors at my disposal for my own personal amusement, after all. Don’t even for a moment think that I take any pleasure whatsoever paying those worthless cruds to sit around all day and do nothing at my expense.
That’s it for now. Before I leave you to peruse this slim issue of concentrated wit, however, don’t forget to dip your loins in marmalade every morning and that pushing pencils (tip first) into your ears is a scientifically proved method for improving your creativity.
Yours superiorly,
Roderick Popplestone |
