Past Za blogging endeavors II
Ladies and gentlemen, once again I bring you Peter Rubin (in the comments section).
And, yes, "episodic raconteuring" will yield only one google hit. If there is some type of cult devoted to words that yield only one google hit, then Peter Rubin is their divinely ordained leader.
By the way, if people create a webpage that lists all of the phrases that appear only once on google, doesn't that mean there will now be two references to the phrase? Or is that the point?
And, yes, "episodic raconteuring" will yield only one google hit. If there is some type of cult devoted to words that yield only one google hit, then Peter Rubin is their divinely ordained leader.
By the way, if people create a webpage that lists all of the phrases that appear only once on google, doesn't that mean there will now be two references to the phrase? Or is that the point?
posted by (d)avid at 11/18/2004 09:15:00 AM
1 Comments:
september 12 2000
tuesday, 10 pm on pbn means it's time for episodic raconteuring, starring the ever-irascible meldrick schreck.
1. in the spirit of my early june birthday paean to steven, i intended to compose similar paeans to pj and to my mother. separate paeans, of course, lest i mistakenly dash off an objectionable limerick and forget to specify which person was the intended audience/inspiration for the doggerel, and later have my mother call me asking what exactly i meant by the phrase "gangly smackhound." so i was going to do that, then i up and sailed off over the horizon of oceanus webpublishus and missed both of their birthdays. not missed them, but missed a chance to commemorate them to the small disfigured audience that has made it a point to gather its wizened bones around the campfire and warm itself with the radiant convective glow of my, uh, blazing linguistic tinder. i tried to make up for it by giving pj a kruder and dorfmeister cd, but he just stared at me coldly and said something like "yeah, this is really great. thanks a lot, rapmaster." i called my mother and told her that the love of her son is worth a thousand hollow bloodlines, and she said "maybe so, but it ain't no tennis bracelet." then she said something that sounded like "i have no son," but the line was staticky so i'm sure i'm mistaken.
2. i have in the last three weeks made the acquaintance of women named kat, tiffany, kristen, tiffany again, corinna, and sioux z.--pronounced, in some deft twist of anglophilic elision-sibilance, "susie," which reminds me of siouxsie and the banshees. it shouldn't, really, seeing as how my familiarity with the group is titular rather than sonic. these women, though, these acquaintances, are not women i will ever meet, nor are they women i have much of a desire to meet. they are publicists, and their calling (maybe "station," since "calling" connotes a driving inner passion that has directed them to a life of phone flackery and i refuse to believe that such a thing exists) is to cajole, bribe, sweet-talk, and otherwise benignly trick me into devoting the ink of the magazine i work for (i got your dangling preposition right here. here, right next to my dangling proposition.) upon their client's once-in-a-lifetime product/idea/telegenic commodity. this is not to cast aspersion on the public-relations world as a whole, but...actually, scratch that. it is.
3. as of today, the current issue of paper is on the stands, featuring a cover line for my article on guru and the new jazzmatazz album. there are no major editorial gaffes, no misquotings that indirectly portray me as a klansman, and no typos that make the reader think that i think that guru's name is "kudzu." also on the stands as off today is the new issue of stuff, featuring the ample charms of ali landry, the "dorito girl." being known in this day and age as the "dorito girl" has got to do make you feel like you're making a contribution to arts and letters the likes of which samuel johnson and pliny could only imagine. it's a shame that she has to cheapen her snack-food honorific by being publicly and romantically linked with mario lopez, known by twentysomethings far and wide as ac slater, ringlet-locked athlete extraordinaire of bayside high on saved by the bell. a damn shame. and despite any intellectual convictions i may hold dictating my attraction to women is predicated upon more than rack-and-pinion steering (if you know what i'm saying, and i think you do. know what i'm saying, that is.), i would take two weeks of unpaid vacation to romp through her womanly pastures. i don't care if she's ironing or doing her taxes, as long as i get a good rompin'. "romp it, rompy," she'd say agreeably yet absent-mindedly as she itemized her deductions. "rmff," i'd say gutturally.
to recap: the ever-irascible meldrick shreck. blazing linguistic tinder. thank you.
p.
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