Let's See How Long I Can Keep This Crap Going

It’s Tuesday and I don’t have a column! It’s Tuesday and I don’t have a column! It’s Tuesday, I don’t have a column and I’m panicking, panicking, panicking! Panicking post-haste!

Okay, get a hold of yourself, Paul. Let’s not get so rambunctious that the column heads into a state of full-fledged tomfoolery. The reader will certainly notice that. But wait . . . isn’t the reader reading this right now?

Gasp!

It’s Tuesday and I don’t have a column! It’s Tuesday and I don’t have a column! Balderdash, they’ll say! Hooligan-ism! Rapscallion-ocity! I’ll be the most preposterous pell-mell pantomime participant in all of the Paledonia Pecuniary Pavilion!

“Why, he’s not bona-fide!” they’ll say. “He’s a man of vulgar urbanity and erroneous respectabilities!”

No, sir, I just can’t have that. A man of my precipitation can’t be engorged with such, such . . . oh never mind.

Sorry, but I just couldn’t keep it up. I knew I was done once the phrases stopped making sense. Hence, the “man of my precipitation” phrase. Anyway, it isn’t Tuesday while I’m writing this, but Monday at 9:02 p.m.

Which brings me to a point (a first for us here in the “Ramblings” column): just how long can I keep this blasted crap going? Another week? Another month? Until I win free beer from the radio station here in La Crosse?

I’m afraid I’m going to have to start making threats. Much as legendary columnist Paul Lundgren of the Ripsaw News has “sellout” columns—where if he doesn’t get a certain amount of donations from his readers by a certain date, he’ll quit—I’m going to do something like that as well. But I’m not going to ask you for money (though there is a DONATION BOX at the bottom of this page. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, grope, grope). No, I’m going to ask for hits on this webpage.

Right now I’m getting about 8-10 hits per day. If, by Monday of next week, I don’t have at least 30 hits/day on this website, I’m going to flood it with Celine Dion music. You heard me. Celine Dion music.

You won’t know when, you won’t know which page, but it will happen. You’ll be sitting in the computer lab at school or taking a break at work, and all of a sudden the computer you’re viewing my column on will start blasting Celine Dion. You’ll be the laughing stock of your school or workplace, afraid to show your face anywhere outside Montreal.

Don’t try and cheat on this, either. The hit counter on my columns only count your IP address once. You’ll just have to tell your friends about this site. If you don’t have any friends, you’ll just have to stand outside punk rock concerts handing out PSHFP leaflets to people as they leave. If you’re too lazy to do that, you’ll just have to stand on a random street corner, angrily shrieking about my site at the top of your lungs.

Now, you may be wondering why I would demand more visitors by threatening my only current visitors with something that would make them go away. Okaaaaaay . . . um . . . ah . . . hell, that is a good question. Damn.

Well, if 20 people don’t show up by next Friday, and I flood the site with sickening French-Canadian Grammy-winning tunes, and everyone stops coming to the site, then I’ll come to your house and crash on your kitchen floor. Seriously, I’m not kidding. I know where at least five of you live. So there. Shove that in your poo hole and blow it all over the neighbors.

Oh, and if crashing on your floor doesn’t work, I’ll wiggle around on your furniture buck-ass naked while reading F. Scott Fitzgerald novels aloud. I don’t think there’s much of a choice here, people.

Just remember, you have a choice: Ramblings or naked Paul. Yech! Just tell your friends, will ya?