As I rushed through the streets of Geneva yesterday, admiring the utter cleanliness of Swiss streets and Swiss Misses, I spotted a man lying against an alley wall. With his arm twisted horribly behind his back and his black beret askew, he looked like the very picture of suffering.
He beckoned to me, requesting in a hushed voice for me to come closer, and I complied.
“Sacre bleu!” he began as all Frenchmen are wont to do, “I have been, how do you say, mortally wounded.” Thank goodness he spoke English.
“Oui,” I replied with my extensive command of French. I needed to conserve both my store of English and my precious time, so I glanced at my watch.
“Stop looking at your watch!” he passionately reprimanded, needlessly tapping into his last reserve of WILL TO LIVE. “I need to tell you something.”
“Oui?”
And so he recounted the unfortunate train of events leading up to his dismal condition. He told me about how la FB“I”—the French Bureau of “Ingenuity”—entrusted him with a mission to trail a cunning German woman. He handed me her dossier.
The woman, Fraulein A.D.D. (Attention Deficit Disorder—are you still with me, gentle reader?), lost him in a revolving door. Monsieur Beret clearly lacked the proper training. With a few swift counter-clockwise and clockwise feints, the crafty Fraulein left the blubbering Frenchmen in the door of a hotel. After a few minutes of valiant struggling, during which he broke his arm and his legs, he surrendered. And all of gay Paris—excuse me; gay PAREEE—wept.
“You must carry out my mission,” he concluded before falling into unconsciousness, but not before telling me that Fraulein A.D.D. was bound for America.
Stay tuned for more high adventure and Germ-antics!
I decided to call myself CEO of Secondhand Rants today, and this decision came not a moment too soon. You see, eager reader, important Blognalists the world over congregated in Geneva this morning for the twice-yearly Blogger’s Convention. And no, you weren’t invited to this one either.
During a roundtable discussion, I tried to look busy by shuffling the few papers, brochures, and candy wrappers I had handy, but this clearly wasn’t enough to keep my nosy neighbor from suddenly engaging me about—oh, JINKIES—elves. I thought I left this issue far behind me, but Mme. Ahoyhoyhoy clearly hates me.
With one hand grasping a cup of Genevan coffee and the other hand holding a piece of goodness knows what, she started waxing philosophical about why elves are desirable.
“Why, HELLO there!” she whispered, clearly wired on coffee.
“Save me!” I thought. “Err, do I know you? And what’s that you’re eating?”
“Elvish bread,” she said matter-of-factly. “Would you like some?”
“Uh, I try to stick to foods made by Nabisco,” I told her disdainfully.
Unfazed, she continued to down her “food.” “I read your theory about elves,” she said between methodical nibbles, “and I don’t really agree with it. I have a problem with elves, but I’m in love with my problem.”
“Good Lord, woman! What’s wrong with you?”
“No, I’m serious. I think he must be coming over regularly and stealing from my wallet and leaving little ATM slips everywhere!” she said breathlessly. “I’m tempted to leave cookies for him. Or elf biscuits.”
“Hmmm,” I replied with furrowed brow, “let me repeat my little thesis: I HATE ELVES.”
“You should favor the beautiful ones, you know.”
By this time, I had already hopped on a plane—the Swiss are always on time, bless their hearts—to America.
Gentle reader, if your thoughts on elves resemble anything printed above, I urge you to add some RAT POISON to the lembas bread and some RAID to the milk that you leave out for Legolas. That’s right, Legolas—who’s yo father-figure now?
During an important staff meeting at Secondhand Rants, one that you unfortunately weren’t invited to, we made two very important decisions. I suppose you want to know about these decisions, gentle reader, lest you go into HAIRY CONNIPTIONS. Even if you don’t want to know, I’ll tell you anyway, so prepare yourself for epiphany after epiphany.
First, you are officially a trustee of Secondhand Rants. Together with your fellow e-stalkers, you will make up the Board of Trustees.
“Wait!” you shout, rudely interrupting me. “How can we decide where the cashola goes if there is no cashola?”
This is when I give you a sly CFO grin and let you in on a secret.
“You see, dear reader,” I patiently explain to you, “you will have the privilege of sending me money.”
“Oh,” you say with a slow nod. “Whom do I make the checks out to?”
“Secondhand Rants,” I tell you. “Make sure to capitalize the ‘S’ and the ‘R.’”
“But before you do that,” I quickly add, “you can save yourself the trouble with amount and the like and simply sign the checks. Thanks!”
The second important decision involves outsourcing some of our Rants.
“Who are you, you upstart ragamuffin, to outsource our Rants?” some board member will angrily ask.
This is when I wail—I mean “bop”—said board member with the Cane of Good Behavior.
“How are we going to outsource?” asks the board member meekly.
I slowly mouth the word “magic,” making sure to emphasize each syllable with a wave of the good Cane.
We’ll do this in secrecy, you see. Other webmasters and webmistresses won’t even know they’re working for Secondhand Rants! Case in point: I urge you to peruse Wailin’s latest entry for an excellent Rant. And for general merriment, make sure to browse Onasteek Online.
That’s enough business for now, patient and goodly reader. In the coming days, we will explore how to properly care for Mother Nature’s candy and also how to enjoy great metaphysical moments by the Lakefill.
And maybe, just maybe Secondhand Rants will receive a visit from the mysterious Artiste A.
Interested? You bet you are!