I'm not the world's best housekeeper, be it a house or anything else. Yesterday I stumbled across within the framework that enables me to 'write' this doohickey, 'blogger.com', a folder labelled 'spam' somewhere in the back office (I have no idea if that's the right term, though, between us, I have the feeling that it isn't) behind the curtain.
All I'm gonna say is if you think some of the stuff I write is goofy, you should be grateful for the Spam I Am, Green Eggs and Ham folder because we're talking Whack Job City (actually more like the suburbs over by the industrial district) in terms of coherence and clarity.
There was a passel of cheap male enhancement drugs at prices too good to be true. I appreciate the Blogger BS patrol picking up that stuff and escorting it to another dimension. Imagine my embarrassment if all of that palaver were posted in the comments section on the day the Pulitzer Prize Patrol van pulled up? I'll bet the committee would wonder why I'm not walking funny since I should have a little something, actually a BIG something, tied to my inside leg. Which helps explain John Wayne's walk-off into the sun far better than anything I've read anywhere else. Tell you what: I won't ever be a Pilgrim; the hell I won't.
Not sure what caused somebody's ad engine to dump every different kind of restaurant recommendation into the comments section of a more recent entry, one at a time, unless it was the word 'breakfast' which, having just typed it make sme wonder if it will happen again. Not sure where all this unwanted ethereal detritus is stored though I'm wondering if it's not in Scandinavia. Bloody Vikings.