Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Dear October Jones

When my friend Matt sent me your link, , several thoughts passed through my head as I read your blog.

My first thought was that perhaps I had gone into a fugue state and somehow started another blog.  I was still skeptical of this mainly because I have no idea how people get screen-shots of text messages onto the computer, or even if that is how your blog actually works.  Then I remembered that I am in fact a genius and would figure out how to do that even in a fugue state.  For instance, one time, in a Milwaukee's Beast Ice-induced fugue I was somehow dressed nicely and wearing a lai, and I was able to wander into a fancy wine party.  Not only that, I was able to reject the fancy cheese platters that dotted the party like pretentious land mines, and I found out where they had hidden their Doritos.   Another time I went into a fugue and cut up a bunch of pumpkins with a katana, then got my friend Jordan blamed for their slaughter.  Clearly, I have the capability of such black out awesomeness to write your blog and not realize it.  But it doesn't seem right.

Next I thought that this was a trick perpetrated by my friend Kurt.  Back when there was a thing called "AOL" and "Instant Messenger", I started a screen-name called "Mr. Chirples" for the sole purpose of terrorizing Kurt.  The reasoning was that Mr. Chirples was a canary, and as a Welshman Kurt was a filthy coal miner whose only friend could possibly be a canary.  Kurt was never really amused with the frantic messages that the air had gone bad in the mine, or that a canary had somehow had relations with his girlfriend.  Kurt, however, is destined for a "Falling Down" type meltdown, so this is not quite his style.

I am not English.  I pretended to be Scottish a few times, but never English.  I do not have a bulldog that texts me.  I have a racist orange tabby that bites everyone that isn't me, and yells until he is fed or given a fuzzy ball to play with.  I have also seen him literally bitch smack a border collie several times, straight across the face.

Not only have you you made my friends think that you are me, but you have gotten more recognition in a much shorter time than I have.  What deal with the devil have you sealed in blood to get a review from the Huffington Post?  What pictures do you hold that those in power don't want us to see?  If I eat your heart, will I gain your powers?  

I am not sure what sexy mind magic you have used to steal my brand of humor, and make it more popular than my blog, but I applaud you.  I now have a worthy opponent, a nemesis attuned to my intellect and wit.  You even have a good nemesis name.  October Jones.

The game is afoot, Mr. Jones.


  1. Greg, my love for you compels me to make a slight correction. Scots are British. The term British applies to folks from the island of Great Britain (plus the Channel Islands and Isle of Man). This means that the Scots, along with the English and Welsh are all British. Sorry to be your know-it-all asshole friend

    1. Well, I was about to write the fabled tale of how we trashed the Shop-Rite because of Lyin Brian, but now I don't know.


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