Although I would never mention it, I am in fact something of a celebrity.
The extent of my fame is not always obvious to the causal observer, mainly due to the surprising restraint shown by my admirers in open areas, but in the enhanced proximity of an enclosed space, their distinctly fanatical character is revealed. In fact, it is a rare occasion that I can slip away from a restaurant, doctorâ€™s office, or even a speed trap without some stern, often uniformed fan demanding my autograph on the bill.
But, like many other newly-minted luminaries, news of my social elevation has been slow to travel home.
Of course Iâ€™m not referring to the members of my immediate family, who extract paychecks, extort allowances, and otherwise allow me to house and feed them with the appropriate sense of reverence and awe due a man of my standing. No, I am talking about my childhood friends.
It may surprise you to know that as a young man, I indeed had friends…
It may surprise you to know that as a young man, I indeed had friends, and that I did not have to financially compensate them in any way for the pleasure of my company. It may also surprise you to know that even today a statistically improbable number of comment-dispensing Comma readers are former high school associates of mine.
What always surprises me, however, is how these longtime aficionados of my â€œworkâ€ are also the quickest ones to point out any hypothetical failings I may possess as an author, fearlessly critiquing my often-thought unassailable humor technique.
They are also impressively speedy to call upon the Hot Comma Momma, by far the friendliest of my high school acquaintances, for reinforcement in any comment section battle of wits they might find themselves decidedly not winning.
You can tell these â€œfriendsâ€ of mine primarily by the bold way they deliver their jabs and slights to my authorly self, here at the very heart of my Ominous empire. They think nothing of harassing me, providing violent ego-decompression, or even comparing my carefully cultivated Surrealistic Lyricism style of Artistic Blogging to a juvenile round of Mad-Libs.
Along with droves of other internet humor connoisseurs, you might wonder how these spectators from my past could possibly find fault in an artist of my stature.1 I often ponder this mystery myself, and the only conclusion I have come up with so far is that somehow my former educational associates still see me like this:
The Young and the Clueless
Instead of this, the towering bloggeranaut I have become:.
The Veins of Our Lives
So as a service to those of you whose mental picture of me is painfully lodged somewhere in the late eighties, I have generously arranged this opportunity for you to get with the program. It is a simple, three step program, consisting of the following tasks: halt your mockery, acknowledge my manly accomplishments, and tremble.
Those readers as of yet not trembling are clearly approaching the forgetful stage of their chronological advancement. So for the benefit of these semi-senile individuals, I have provided this handy Accomplishment Reference for your trembling convenience:
- I write the Ominous Comma, hailed by critics as â€œthe most inventive and un-credible blog ever to be named after punctuation.â€2
- I have a full head of my own original hair.
- I arose from my bed this morning unaided, narrowly escaping the clutches of gravity.
- Did I mention the Comma?
For anyone who may have already forgotten the purpose of the preceding highly impressive list, here is a reminder, in large, bi-focal friendly print.
Alright my readers, it is now your turn to wax reflective. If you went to school with the author, if you went to school with people, or if you in any way participated in the educational process,3 please send your memories, pictures, anecdotes, or anything else likely to embarrass you to this fine publication via the comment boxes securely mounted at the bottom of this post.
Our usual $72 dollar entry fee has been waived in order that even the most starvingly artistic, as well as the merely unemployed, can participate in what is sure to be painful spill down memory lane.
Let get remembering, people. While you still can.
This post has seen better days over at humor-blogs.com
- It is a well known fact that 73 inches is the height of artistic perfection. That is why so many aspiring artists invest in platform shoes. ↩
- Yes, I made that up. But genuine, unfabricated praise for this site does surprisingly exist and can be found here. ↩
- Military and obedience schools included. ↩