Despite what I said ten days ago, some dim bulbs insist that I should keep on accepting awards. Today's 15-watt porch light is Quirkyloon. Here's a photo of her enjoying a wombat in her underwear.
These virtual cases of chlamydia always come with rules, which is one of the reasons I despise them. Do they ask you to follow some absurd set of rules when you receive an Oscar, an Emmy, or a Tony? NO! As a matter of fact, when you receive a Tony, it explicitly says on the statue that you never have to follow the rules again (unless you're straight, in which case they check to see how the voting got screwed up.) So why, in order to display one of these armpit pimples on your blog, should you have to list Six Things You Ate That Were Still Alive? Or even Reveal What You Wore The Last Time You Had Sex With A Human?
(Which would be a good thing to yell in a crowded theater in order to see if anyone was truly listening.)
(Now, THAT'S a non sequitur what is one!)
Anyway, one of the hideous rules connected with this particular internet equivalent of toe jam is that the recipient is supposed to pass it along to seven other unsuspecting and otherwise peaceful individuals in an effort to see that everyone with a computer eventually ends up with this pussy rash.
(That's pussy, as in filled with pus, and not the vulgarity for the female sexual organs, although if I know my audience, that's how each and every one of you pronounced it on the first read.)
When Quirkyloon, an otherwise harmless molester of zombie wombats, foisted this fetid pile of stink cheese on me, here's what she said:
Suldog... is funny and wise. And he LOATHES awards and will ROAST you if you bestow one upon him. Let's see if he READS this post, cuz I ain't gonna tell him.
Me? Funny and wise? That tells you right there just how much of both of those superlatives she has on board, which is to say she is equivalent to Pooh.
(That would be Pooh, the bear of very little brain, as opposed to pooh, the shit. Still, if I know my audience, you're probably long gone by now, so why am I still typing?)
Well, first off, I figure there might be a few [hundred] of you who are glad to see anything from me that doesn't mention softball. A couple others have fallen asleep in their chairs, and I like to hear myself talk, so wot the hell.
Anyways, here's the thing:
Hah! If I know my audience, half of you don't get it and the other half are saying, "It's a proper name, so it should have been capitalized, like "Pooh" was."
And now that I've finished my last line of coke, we'll go on. You see, I don't have anything more than what I've already given you, which, you have to admit, hasn't been all that and a bag of chips. However, I do have a very large backlog of USED insults from when I accepted other awards in the past, so I'm just going to trot a bunch of 'em out on the stage now and you can decide if they apply to Quirkyloon or not. I don't give a rat's ass whether they do because I've done my job here, as shoddily and haphazardly as I'm allowed under union blogging rules, and I'm going home now. Before I go, though, I am telling you the stone-cold absolute bottom-line truth:
THE NEXT PERSON WHO GIVES ME AN AWARD WILL BE TREATED SO VICIOUSLY, SO INHUMANELY, SO VASTLY WORSE THAN THIS, THAT IT WILL MAKE HAVING YOUR FACE SET ON FIRE AND TROD UPON BY A SPIKED BOOT SEEM CHEERFUL AND LOVING BY COMPARISON.
(Or maybe I'll just ignore it, which is what I could have done with this award, but I truly like Quirky, she asked for it, and I always try to be kind to the dull-witted.)
OK, here come the old insults! Few of them will make any sense in the current context, but so am I.
"Being a blogger deemed worthy of note by Quirky is similar to being a food item declared healthy by a sack full of Twinkies."
"I suppose Quirky is creative, in the same way that a vicious dog leaving a cat only three legs to hobble around on is creative, but that does little to swell the dog’s reputation and leaves you with somewhat less of a cat. In certain circles, that might qualify as art."
"Next up on this edition of World's Dumbest Criminals is Quirkyloon. Quirky hails from Neptune, and her hobbies include pretending she's Queen Elizabeth and fondling herself."
"I'm wracking my brain trying to come up with just exactly what type of gift Quirky might have, other than the ability to induce type-2 diabetes, but I think the idea is to just acknowledge that such gifts exist in all of us, even if when we put on a jumper and sandals we become the stuff of a bad STP trip."
"To be singled out, in her estimation, as funny, is certainly an honor that ranks up there with, say, being named starting first baseman for the 1963 Washington Senators."
"Too easy a target. I mean, sure, I could sit around all day bashing Quirky, but where's the sport in that? I'd have her skewered before she could wipe the tobacco drool off of her chin. It would be like... well, like making fun of Texans or lesbians. All they have to do is show up and it's funny. I don't have to say a damn thing."
(End of old insults, all of which were re-cycled even before this, as My Darker Grey Friend, Michelle, knows. Sad. Truly and officially sad. I'm quoting myself quoting myself quoting myself. Even Truman Capote never sank that low.)
Of course, I could have saved all of us some trouble if I had remembered earlier that I already received this award and just sent you to read the post I wrote back then. But, I didn't. I'll try to give you back these ten minutes some other day.
Thanks bunches, Quirky. If I know my audience, I now don't have one. My reputation has been destro... well, no, my reputation is pretty much bulletproof, unfortunately, so never mind.
Moon, with snore butter muff.
(Why not? It makes as much sense as anything else here.)