T.S. Eliot once famously called April "teh cruelest month"1; literary/biographical scholars recently discovered that this was because he came home one day to find April fucking his wife. And he was all, "This, THIS is how you tell me you're a lesbian? Helloooo?! Hallmark has a card for everything these daze, you know?" And his wife was all, "O, Tommy. I'm not a lesbian. I did this to get back at you for all the future freshman college students who will take Introduction to Anglo-American Poetry 101 and will be forced to read your obscurantist tripe, those lines that mean nothing and end with a footnote2 promising clarification and then when they go to the footnote it'll be in fucking GREEK or some shit, and they'll be all, 'Eliot, you fucking dick!' and their profs will assure them it's genius because it's indecipherable and like that. This Sapphic act" — vaguely indicating April, here — "is for them!" And of course T-Bag is all, "You realize that, technically, that's not the correct usage of 'obscurantist'?" And Mrs. T-Bag turns to April and is all like, "BLARRRGH!1! See what I have to put up with?" And April's all, "Whatev. 'S been real. I'm outta here."
And that's why the first line of "The Wasteland" now reads:
April is the cruelest month, breeding
instead of the original way Eliot had it, which was:
Woo-Hoo! It's April! Warm temps again! SHOW US YOUR TITZ, BITCHEZ!1!
Which most scholars agree is a way better opening line, yo.
But it is not my intention here to argue the merits, or lack thereof, of Eliot's poetry; or to speculate on the subject of whether or not his wife was, as we say in Joisey, "a whoo-wer". It is my intention to reclaim the Good Name of Teh Month of April.
And this is how I intend to do so:
I hereby announce that, for the entire month of April, I will attempt to post only the most genteel of posts. No "fuck this" or "n*ts@ck that"; no calling people "anal whoo-wers" even when it's true, for truth will not be a defense for boorish behavior in Teh Genteel Month of April.
I will also attempt to post something every single day for the full 30 days of April, a feat I nearly achieved, unintentionally, in this here month of March. The posts will all probably be very short because if I can't say, "eff this" and "n*ts@ck that", then let's face it, I got nothin', and I'm not un-selfaware enough not to realize that. So it'll be interesting to see what I come up with, or, to put it another way, it'll probably fucking bore your dicks off, or, if you're a chick, it may just bore a dick on you — I'm not sure how it works with you skirts when you get penis-sheddingly bored; something will happen down there; I'm just not sure what.
And so but then those of you whose blogs I read should be prepared because my comments in the month of April are bound to be even more offensive than usual. All this pent up sleaze has to come out somehow and, from my perspective, that's basically what you guys are for; that's your purpose. O, sure — to you, you're all about, "Woo-Hoo! I PR'd this weekend!" or "I finished my dissertation!" or "I finally made friends by giving everybody free fudge!" or "I officially became more of a wingnut than Glenn Beck!" or "I fucked a horse!" or "I have a killah @$$!" or "GAH!" or "Ranty Ranty Rant Rant!"
But from here, from my perspective, that's not what you're about. You're about providing me with an outlet for my gross and inappropriate thoughts when I get bored at work.
And in April, I'll need you more than ever.
TIA for your cooperation.
Ran 5.07 miles in 44:33 this morning for an 8:48 pace. I am up to 105.25 miles for the month. If I can get a 4.75 mile run in tomorrow, I can make it an even 110 miles for March. This may or may not happen, which pretty much covers it, the law of excluded middles being what it is and all.
I have no idea why Cletus never told us that he was interviewed on the radio by Don Savage:
1 Eliot seemingly had it in for months with thirty days in them; because in an early draft of "Teh Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock" (later revised), he, less famously, called November a "cocksucker"; and — despite exhaustive searches through journals, letters, memoirs, etc. of everyone who knew Eliot, as well as through the letters and journals of Eliot himself — scholars have found no evidence that November ever wronged him in any way. He also once took a paper bag full of dog poop, brought to September's house, lit the bag on fire, left it on the stoop, rang the bell and ran away. Luckily, September wasn't home — in fact, was off fucking Eliot's wife at the time, though Eliot never knew that, so the joke was kinda on Eliot again. There is no evidence Eliot ever did anything to June, which has led certain scholars to speculate that he had an unrequited love for that month.
2 It is generally agreed that people who overuse footnotes, especially footnotes that don't really provide any useful information, are total dicks. Also, people named Tom/Tommy/Thomas are invariably douchenozzles.