Silius T. Sluck

.
So, I put a title on this blog entry, but I've decided it (ie the title) will have nothing to do with the actual post. Because, see, this post is untameable, it's like runaway inflation, or a hard-to-spot solar eclipse that burns your face off just thinking about it. You can't put a label on this post, just like you can't put a label on a big yellow space wagon hurtling through the galactosphere, stopping at every intergalactic gas-n-gulp along the way. And so I call this post 'Silius T. Sluck'. Because, see, this post is like the sticky runoff from a jar of strawberry jam; it's the stubborn ooze that coagulates and crusts up around the lid, and so to set it straight you have to hold this post under a hot spray of water, to rinse away the annoying crap, and then you stick the jar in the fridge and you forget all about it, until the next time you make your famous 'heart-attack' strawberry waffles. And so you call upon the strawberry jam. Which is precisely the rationale behind this post.

Now, you may ask (though I doubt you will), 'Who is Silius T. Sluck'--'what kind of degenerate troubadour is he?' 'Does he remember to feed his dog?' 'Does he even have a dog?'

Yes, I assure you, Silius T. indeed does have a dog, and he always remembers to feed the beloved four-legger. And walk him. As it happens, Sluck's dog's name's McSilius, which in Scottish means, 'son of Silius'.

Now, you are no doubt not even thinking, 'What could be sillier than Silius T.?' The answer is: just about everything could be, but it rarely is.

So it turns out this whole post actually is about the title, ie the come-by-chance existence of one Silius T. Sluck. So I lied. Wow. In a way, it's like I just forced you to stare into a mind-numbing solar eclipse of pure stupidity, or something inane like that. I'm quite sorry, but when you (don't even) think about it--what could be sillier than this? The answer is nothing, Silius. I'm so very very sorry.