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Foreword
Anyone can be egged on into anything, be only the hook baited with "I dare you!" The trick grows more irresistible when the mark enjoys their state of soporific inefficacy. For which obvious reason avoidance of things popped up in sleep would only assert that your lick of sense sits where it belongs, as of yet.
Hence my salutary rule: first thing in the morning, to dead forget all stuff broadcast to you in the grip of Morpheus' arms, so to say.
The paradigm fits ideally both ladies and gentlemen – the night's over, be smart to instantly become an innocent blank slate, better be safe than sorry and so on, you know…
Which policy might turn a misstep though, at times. Recall from your reproductive memory a certain Mendeleev, if you please. The old fart amassed right smart repute among the screwballs kooky about that Chemistry thing. Remember why? By skipping to forget the periodic table that visited him at night dream. And now what? At quite a few places you might stumble on his monument both sitting and standing and never less than his bust but then it’s hard to puzzle out the posture of his extremities. Anatomical, of course.
Good news they still dare not amputate his beard – a quick check: full? chest-brushing? – and you're all set:
“G'Morning, Dmitry Ivanovych!. How's Your most precious?. Yeah, sure, they did promise a light rain by noon!.”
And monuments too, apropos, are pretty slippery ground to horse about. Uh-hmm, up to 7 years in prison. Article 214, the Penal Code of the Russian Federation. Oops. Not to mention the fine starting at half a million rubles. Some weighty pros and cons, huh?
Or how do you like that crooked ploy by which that poor wretch Don Juan was undone by that Monument of Commodore?
The big shot’s freshly baked widow had just received her share of consolation he served her in every humanly possible way, Don Juan did. As any do-gooder would. Before running into that ‘I-dare-you!’ catch.
“What?” sez he, the Monument. “Chicken out to shake hands with me, Wet Pants?”
And the dupe swallows the hook, sink, and all, full tilt, like a Juanito-kid from the slums of the Mexico City, the capital of the same-named state:
“Shut up, booger!” he sez. “Who’re you to freak me out? We'll check whose pants are wetter!”
And he clap-squeezed Commodore's glove. But it's of stone through and through! Plus palming a handful of P4! And that white phosphorus stuff is so nasty a shit, they never collected a sliver of Don Juan after the handshake, so as to poke out a DNA sample for checking his fatherhood in the slew of bastards spawn all over Europe, whose Moms went out to litigate Juan for alimonies. Added by those eager to boost their rating in the upcoming elections to the respective municipal bodies of self-government…
To cram it all into a neat laconic nutshell, when Charles Dickens chose to appear in my dream, shaped as his monumental embodiment, I was Correctness itself, exposing all due respect, you know. Yet the spook kept bulldozing me most immodestly, like, you can find no writers any more, and it's just computers sweating in their, writers', stead to process the copy-pasted text by reading it backward and then arranging paragraphs diagonally or whichever way you tweak it.
And after, there remains to specify the time and place your work-in-progress narrates of (a separate tweak to spice it with appropriate word collocations), and then, just in case, you check if the love-triangle was compromised, here and there, with scraps and snips of Mimi the Bitch from the previous bestseller based on facts from canine life. Miles away from the toil he, this here Charles, plunged into in his time!.
And the like old geezer's hooey about 15 novels in 27 years of banging out a weekly bunch of pages, specific number thereof as stipulated by the contract.
And thus our discourse somehow tacked over to betting on that I too could turn out a novel in Charlie's way – a chapter per 5-day working week, since on weekends I’m hardly functional, thanks to the well-established tradition, the two-day dead season, sort of.
The pending masterpiece was baptized The Blog, the shorter, the clearer, to bump off any needless straining, andagreed upon as a sufficient scribbledrome.
Although there surfaced an annoying hitch, and pretty soon too, their editor program filters the uploaded files to sift out, automatically, the words rooted in the language alive from the times immemorial.
Simple example – in place of 'dick' they stick in '****' which planetarium gives you a hard nut to crack if you're a normal guy and it was Friday yesterday, the weekend's inauguration. Seriously, I've checked it out – you run into a hang-up at that starry patch.
However, I didn’t steer into rubbing it in to their system administrators about glossarial racism, compulsory castration of the mother-tongue means of expressiveness, and orgiastic witch-hunt by catabolically impaired inquisitors under the disguise of struggle for Native Speech purification. Because there was no time to lose…
So as to keep the vividness of narrative under control, I had to introduce some spelling innovation and add '*' (not asterisk but letter yobz now) to the native orthography.
The yobz surely earns its keep, insert it in any of your preferred words to dim the sight of the censor software out there, thick smoke spouts out its ears and, for instance, 'fu*ck' is welcome as virginally innocent linguistic norm, like any other necessary word of feather fixed as needed.
Forgotten are the constellations of **** and other fuc*king malarky while the smart reader will see through non-obscuring yobzes.
Still and yet, I’ve betted on the wrong horse because The Blog took a week longer to finish off.
I dunno what to say Dickens on his next visitation.
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Chapter or (more appropriately) Bottle #1: ~ Who Cares for Rhymes If Having Reason ~
A-and well, if you attentively weigh up the matter, do I need it at all? This here Blog?